Fortune's Fool
by Lou-deadfroggy
Summary: Glorfindel's world is made up of fate, prophecy and inheritance. When fortune gives him a chance, he never seems to take it in quite the right way to keep his family and his people safe, or make himself happy, which is of course an after thought. Legolas does not want what fortune gives him, only what fate took away. Politics in Mirkwood are a game of chance with many players.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_"A glooming peace this morning with it brings,__  
__The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.__  
__Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things.__  
__Some shall be pardoned, and some punished,"__  
__Romeo and Juliet (Act V Scene III), William Shakespeare_

Glorfindel stood with his back to the dawn, his blood stained sword still in his hands, as he looked over the battle field. Somewhere, a wounded man was sobbing and calling out for his mother. After a moment he was silenced by a merciful blade but there were hundreds more, some too close to the darkness to cry out, some clinging to the hope that the dawn would bring a friendly hand to lift them up. Instead the grey light shined past the silhouette of a solitary figure, tall against the horizon where no others stood. Blood and dirt caked his armour, dulling the once golden sheen.

How did it come to this? Glorfindel asked himself. How did it come once again to war? Sauron was gone yet here was his legacy: orcs and Easterlings and goblin-men. There were men of Gondor, of Dale and of the north lying dead. Elves too, on both sides. How did it come to swords again, to brother fighting brother?

"Fin," Erestor's weary voice called and Glorfindel turned to see the dark haired elf coming up the hill slowly, his own sword in his scabbard. Glorfindel's eyes went at once to the bandage on Erestor's arm.

"You are hurt," he said at once, reaching out after thrusting his sword in the damp ground. Gently he took Erestor's arm, frowning slightly as he tried to discern how badly Erestor was wounded. A cold hand placed itself on Glorfindel's cheek, wiping away a splatter of blood.

"A sprain, a blow came down too hard," Erestor answered quietly, the pain in his voice betrayed more hurt than such a wound should have caused.

"What is it? What else has happened?" Glorfindel moved closer, almost cradling Erestor's limp hand in his.

"I am too weak to hold my own sword against a blow, too weak to stop it jarring my arm like an elfling at practice." Tired, Erestor lay his head against Glorfindel's chest as if it was dry and clean not covered in the scum of battle. "What has become of me, Fin? How can one of the Firstborn tire like a child? Never after Dol Guldur has it taken such a toll." Erestor looked around him suddenly, lifting his head from Glorfindel's breastplate. "We stand among the dead and the dying. We have friends to bury and enemies to deal with. There are those who now have no arm to sprain and here I and bemoaning my little wound." Glorfindel smoothed back the strands of hair that had come loose from Erestor's braid, moving a hand as if he could shield him from the sight of the battlefield around them. He wished he could wipe away the pain as well, not just from the sprain but the weight of the past pressing down on them.

"Where is Lindir?" he asked suddenly, remembering that although in the fray a battle shrank to the size of your sword ranged they had other loved ones there too.

"Safe," came the answer. "In the healers' tent, helping." Glorfindel let his shoulders relax slightly in relief. Lindir was safe, and unhurt unlike Erestor.

"Who else?" Who else was alive and well, he meant to ask yet Erestor answered a different question.

"Legolas' brother is dead." Glorfindel's eyes widened before he shut them tightly.

"Matlar?" A picture of the sweet blond boy came to mind, so much like Erestor in his ways, slow to speak out and more even of temper than his older brothers, certainly more placid than his father. Legolas had once called his immediate younger brother the reason in their madness, the calm one in the storm that was his brothers.

"No, the elder, Hestlean. Celeborn is sending word to Legolas in Ithilien, and to Thranduil." A second son lost to the King of Mirkwood, a second brother Legolas would have to bury. "He is the eldest now, though I fear he may lose Matlar through grief as well. Orophim took a wound laced with poison that will not heal. Matlar and their cousin are with him but we are not holding onto much hope." Another brother for Rúmil to loose, Glorfindel thought, Haldir lay buried in Rohan now Orophim could be in a grave dug for him by a traitor.  
Again, the note of weariness in Erestor's voice struck Glorfindel and he knew that he would have to find somewhere for Erestor to rest, and if possible sleep.

"Come," he said at last, picking up his sword and wiping it clean on his sodden cloak before sheathing it. "Let us go back. I would rather Celeborn's letters had my condolences as well; Legolas is going to need more than an acquaintance's sympathies. Then we must decide how to find our enemy before she escapes and this counts for naught." The thought chilled him in ways the cold mud could not. Legolas was in Ithilien, cleansing Gondor of Sauron's shadow. Yarna and Aragorn were in Minas Tirith, largely unprotected against an attack.

"We will find them," Erestor reassured him with weary confidence as he tried not to lean too heavily on Glorfindel's arm.

"I should have told Elrond to sentence her to death, regardless of the sin that would be. I should have listened to Arathorn and let him behead her instead of sending her into exile." The thought had haunted him since the first whispers of this host appeared. What they thought had been mercy, redemption for the sins of his father, had led to more deaths, more elven blood shed at the hands of their kin.

"We did away with death as a penalty for crimes," Erestor reminded him gently. "You are not at fault for being merciful, even Elrond could not foresee that it would come to this." Glorfindel was unconvinced; Erestor could not put those demons to rest with mere words.

"Tell me, who dealt the blow that brought Hestlean down?" Glorfindel asked as they neared the lines of tents. Erestor hesitated before answering.

"Three arrows, the third of which stopped his heart," he answered slowly. Arrows. All the sons of Thranduil were archers, Matlar, the second youngest, now the second eldest had been on the flank, leading his rangers, wielding a bow.  
"Celeborn found the body, he pulled them out before Matlar could see. I do not know, he did not say whose they were." Let them be of Dale, or the bows of Gondor, Glorfindel prayed. Let no elf be told their arrow killed the King's son. Let no one say Matlar brought his brother down. Let no one earn my father's title, Glorfindel thought sourly. One he should have taken centuries ago, and stopped this war from happening.  
"Fin," Erestor's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "Someone is going to have to lead the second attack, against her rear guard. The Easterlings did not all reach the river, there is nearly a third of the whole force still to fight. Reinforcements that did not come, we do not know the reason why."

"A lack of communication, overconfidence, or another plan we are unaware of," Glorfindel mused out loud, scanning the elves they passed for signs of friends. As much as they both wanted to enter the large healing tent to find Lindir, to see if they could help Orophim, they carried on. How many times, Glorfindel wondered, had he left his family to do his duty without even checking on them first?

The command tent was neither the largest nor grand in any way, such as the lords of men would advertise their leadership in fine cloths and decoration. One side had been pulled up to open it to all, the other three stirred in the breeze, the grey cloth tugging gently on the guy ropes. Everything, Glorfindel noted, looked grey in the morning light, the sun was not so much shining as simply lighting the scene as little as it could. A brazier stood inside the tent, spilling its errant light on the table the Men of Dale had brought. Glorfindel neared to see Celeborn bent over the table, a map open beneath his hands. Brand, son of King Bard of Dale stood beside him, as did Lani, Celeborn's Captain.

"You lingered long on the field of the dead," Celeborn said without turning. "Our enemy is not to be found among them." Glorfindel felt at once guilty that he had not come straight to the commanders, as always after a battle he needed time to clear his head from the din and shaking adrenaline that came with it.

"Valion is ranging east along the Anduin, Rúmil has gone north to cut her off before she reaches the hills and the rest of her forces," Lani told him, pointing along the map as she spoke. Glorfindel didn't glance at it, preferring to see the world as he knew it lay than as a Dale cartographer saw it from an imaginary above.

"If the Easterlings march they will push us back to the river and we will be caught between the cliffs," Brand said with a heavy frown as if he had to point out the obvious to the greatest generals the elves could name. Glorfindel paused before answering, trying to guess where their enemy would go.

"North," he said finally. "Who do we have looking north?"

"North? Towards Lórien?" Brand asked incredulously, staring at him. "Why would she go away from her allies?"

"To circle round and join them where we are not looking for her," Lani answered. "Matlar's company are scouting north, under the command of one of his Silvan captains."

"Orophim," Celeborn murmured before shaking his head. "Finding her is only half the problem. Once found, a criminal must be tried and sentenced."

"She has been tried before," Erestor answered as he took the only seat next to the table. "And sentenced. We can do so again, give a different order, or send her to Thranduil and have him deal out justice for his son." There was a moment of stony silence in the tent, a shadow passing over the two Western lords' faces.

"My brother deserves no justice," a quiet voice said, thick and strangled. Matlar appeared, his hazel eyes rimmed with red against very pale skin. "Justice is the rulings of the law, had he lived Hestlean would see the force of them. My father will not seek revenge for this, not when he fell on the wrong side of the field." Glorfindel's heart went out to the young prince, standing up as straight as he could whilst his brother lay dead and his lover dying.

"If it please you, my lord," Matlar added to Celeborn. "I would see those arrows and lay to rest any claims that it was my company who met his in the field." The sons of Thranduil grew up quickly, Glorfindel knew, and learnt hard lessons. He had known them all, to differing degrees and here before him he could see how the centuries of duty were the only things keeping Matlar standing, the only things keeping him together.

"They are not yours," Celeborn said gently, taking out three blood-stained arrows. One was broken in half, the other two missing heads. Matlar glanced only at the fletching before looking away. Glorfindel could see they were not of elven make.  
Dale, Erestor mouthed silently and they both glanced at Brand.

"She bent to your law, my lords," Matlar said stiffly. "So she must again. For these crimes, my father would have no choice in the sentence though he would be loath to pass it and has never done so. Not in Amon Lanc was it passed, in the time of his father." The meaning was clear, Matlar was asking them to deal out the death judgement on their enemy when she was captured so his father would not have to.  
My inheritance, Glorfindel thought again. My father's title. The name given to my kin. Matlar wanted his father to be spared the title kin-slayer, a title the Noldor had already earned.

"The judgements will be made here, the sentence passed as we see fit," Celeborn answered.  
So, thought Glorfindel, the lords of Lórien and Imladris shall deal out their death and judgement, and the Elvenking will be spared the task.

"With your leave, my lords," Matlar's soft voice said and he left quickly. Glorfindel wondered if Rúmil would take the law into his own hands when he met the elf who struck his brother down.

"Glorfindel, there are reinforcements in the hills, we have swapped places with the enemy and now we are the ones trapped against the river. Whatever is decided the Easterlings are a threat that cannot be left," Celeborn said as he traced the outline of their position against the Anduin with a finger. To the north, across the river lay the Field of Celebrant, to the south the Wold and Rohan. Men called their position North Undeep, a series of valleys that backed the mighty Anduin west of the Brown Lands.

"My men are tired," Brand interjected. "They cannot march and fight again, not before they have had rest." The hint of anger in his voice at the inexhaustible pace of the elves was clear. Celeborn did not have enough troops to take the Easterlings on alone, not without the Men of Dale and the Gondorians Glorfindel had brought from the south.

"When will they be ready?" the lord of Lórien asked. "The Easterlings are fresh, they could come over the hills and chase us into the Anduin before the sun is set." The battle had been fought under cover of darkness, against Brand's wishes but the element of surprise had been theirs which made up for the lack of numbers. Now, uphill they would have no such luck.

"Tomorrow they will be ready," Brand answered. "I have lost nearly a quarter of my men, some five hundred and another seven hundred are wounded." Glorfindel watched as Erestor did the sums quickly.

"At most, we have two thousand who can march at dawn tomorrow," the dark haired elf told them. "The Easterlings have twice that number, maybe more. Eight thousand marched here under the enemy's banners, five thousand of those Men. We defeated the main part of the host, the orcs and goblins here today. Four thousand, less as many are routed, lie dead in enemy colours alongside maybe a thousand of our own." As numbers they were impressive, only one grave for ever four enemy dead yet Glorfindel knew they had only had five thousand to begin with. Five thousand, now four, two thousand ready to march.

"It will not be enough," Lani said quietly, they were all thinking the same. "Even if we all marched, four thousand could not pull off a victory uphill. We had the advantage before, now they have it against us."

"Surely we thought of this before," Brand said, by we he meant them. They had, but things had gone wrong and now they had nothing to fall back on.

"They will find her," Celeborn repeated quietly. The scouts had to find the enemy leader, before she could reach the Easterlings. Only then could they stand a chance.

"The Easterlings have the largest pass blocked but cannot move to the other two quickly enough," Glorfindel began. "Moving our forces through the northern pass would take us up to the plateau here." He pointed to the map for the others' sakes. "We can circle in behind them and force them down the ravine."

"Towards what? You would have to take the two thousand to make them move at all, any less and they would simply fight their way through instead of trying to find level ground," Erestor countered. "You cannot drive them towards the camp, not when we have none to hold it with."

"You will have enough to build defences, create a killing ground at the bottom of the pass, enough to slow them down and catch them between our main force coming from above and the stakes below." Glorfindel sighed, they needed to capture the leaders, to stop communications between the scouts but their hand had been forced the day before and they did not have the numbers.

"You would drive them towards your wounded? Men who cannot fend for themselves?" Brand asked, his thin mouth agape. Glorfindel decided that they were not going to get on well, the Prince of Dale thought too much and reasoned too little. They however needed the soldiers he brought with him. Badly.

"Out of those who could not march tomorrow, could they fire at the enemy? Could they guard a palisade?" Glorfindel demanded. "After two days could they stand again? I think your seven hundred is a little steep but we need them here. Two thousand march, seventeen hundred stay and we catch the Easterlings as they come down the slopes." Brand opened his mouth again to argue.

"Then it is decided," Celeborn confirmed before Brand could say otherwise. "Glorfindel, you march at dawn with those who can. We shall have archers on the lower slopes to harry them as they come down. Lani, you command the slopes. Erestor, start moving the wounded back towards the river, we can use the defences that the enemy made to repel us."

"I would go with Glorfindel, to command my men," Brand added. To keep yourself safe, Glorfindel thought sourly. To give yourself the safest task that would earn you the most glory. He did not doubt that he was more likely to see the end of battle than Lani, the Easterlings would be on top of her as they came out of the hills.

"As you wish," Celeborn answered and turned to go. "Glorfindel." With a quick glance at Erestor he followed, the grey morning looking even duller as he stepped away from the brazier.  
"You will execute her then." It was not so much a question as a fact awaiting confirmation.

"If it needs to be done," Glorfindel replied. My inheritance, he thought again.

"Then do one thing," said Celeborn, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder gently. "Ask Brand for an executioner." Glorfindel looked back at where Brand was giving orders to his men, pointing around him with an angry scowl. He did not want to ask the Man for anything, let alone someone who would do the task no elf wanted.

"When we find her," he answered. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I must go and find my son." Glorfindel inclined his head and left Celeborn, circling back to avoid Brand before finding Erestor in the command tent again, Lani having left as well.

"The brilliant tactician," the dark haired elf said wryly, taking the proffered arm. "Celeborn is backing the rest of us against the river, splitting those left behind into three. If they flank us..." Glorfindel sighed, wrapping an arm around the thin shoulders next to him.

"If. Without Hestlean and her they have lost the two tacticians who understand our ways, we are dealing with Easterlings and the remains of an Orc host. Neither know the terrain and neither have cavalry. They will not flank you, they will fall against Celeborn under a storm of arrows and we shall be done with this war for good."

"Not until you kill her," Erestor added quietly. The war would go on, another army raised or another friend attacked until they had removed the traitor's head.

"Mayra," Glorfindel said suddenly. "Her name is Mayra and she has broken the mercy of exile given to her, as she has broken our most sacred laws. Her name is Mayra, Erestor, and we should have no trouble saying it." He ignored the shocked look he received at that. Mayra had been exiled, her name became a taboo and she was erased from memory but unlike others she refused to go quietly.

"Will you find it easier if she has a name?" Erestor asked him.

"No. Nothing will make it easier. Celeborn has told me to find an executioner among the Men of Dale or of Gondor. Somehow, that seems wrong. It is our sentence, our justice that must be given out." My inheritance, he thought again. I received my looks and my temper from my father, as well as my title and house, it is only fair that I take up his name as well.

"Turgon sentenced Eol to death," Erestor reminded him quietly. "It was Galdor and Penrod who flung him from the cliffs. It was the law, as it is now."

"I was there, Erestor." As I was there at Alaquonde. "Eol had killed another, Mayra only tried." He shivered as the memory of Elrond and Lindir lying cold in the snow, the only signs that they were still alive were the tiny patches of half melted snow by their mouths.

"Should we be rewarded for our failures?" Erestor asked him. "We have no choice in this." Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment before sighing. Erestor did not understand, how it felt to put your sword to another elf's throat and know it was your people's legacy, your inheritance. He wished Galadriel was still there, she would understand his reluctance to put the law into effect. Erestor was too young to remember Alaquonde clearly, almost too young to remember leaving Aman at all. He would not be woken in the night by dreams of a red harbour and sons running behind fathers begging them not to go down to the waters. No choice was the answer they gave when they had to do something hard, it was nothing more than a feeble excuse. Glorfindel knew they had a choice, and Celeborn was simply passing it on to him.

"As you say," he murmured. "I must see what company I can draw up to march tomorrow. You should go and find Lindir then get some rest, you are going to need it come tomorrow." They were outside the healing tents now, the gaps between them forming makeshift streets still grey in the morning light. The camp had not really slept so it was not so much coming to life as acknowledging the lack of it around them. Glorfindel smiled slightly as the pressure on his arm was removed and Erestor stood up straighter.

"I have to start moving the wounded towards the river and find a way to defend the lower slopes when you drive the hoard down on us." He still looked tired, far too tired to be given the tasks Celeborn had ordered him to deal with. Glorfindel reached out gently to try and persuade him to rest a moment, before his duty wore him out.  
"Leave me be, Fin, I can do what is asked of me." A shadow crossed his thin features and Glorfindel frowned as he walked away without another word. Those words, or some derivative, always soured Erestor's face and he had yet to find out why.

"Father!" A bright voice called out. Lindir ran up to him, wrapping an arm around him. Glorfindel let himself smile and relax for a moment as he hugged the young elf back. The smell of different herbs and sterilising alcohol came off of Lindir, almost masking the sweat and blood on his hands.

"Are you alright?" Glorfindel asked him. "I should have come and looked for you at once."

"I am fine," Lindir answered. "You did not find her then?" They were all waiting for their enemy to be brought in, for the war to be over. Lindir was looking up to him for reassurances, for him to say that the enemy was gone and they could go home. Glorfindel wanted him to still be young enough to be lied to, the little boy they could keep the world hidden from.

"No, not yet." Lindir's face fell slightly and he struggled to keep up a firm gaze. He had not been through the childhood training Matlar had, he could not guard his heart from the minefield of a King's court. Glorfindel had had to learn those lessons too, in a court less open and welcoming than Elrond's.  
"We are splitting into four, I am taking two thousand up into the hills to rout the Easterlings down, Lani will be waiting on the slopes and Celeborn just below her. The wounded are being moved towards the river, behind what defences Erestor can build. I want you to-"

"I am coming with you," Lindir said at once. Glorfindel knew he could not order him to stay, Lindir was one of the few uninjured survivors, they would need him along with everyone else. Glorfindel would have rather had him stay with Erestor, safeguarding the wounded and as far from more fighting as possible.

"You will stay with Celeborn on the lower slopes," he answered. That would be safer, if the Easterlings turned on them and broke through. Lindir looked like he was about to argue then thought better of it.

"I should go and start seeing how many I can gather for each company," Lindir said quietly.

"Find the commanders from Imladris and gather them in the centre of the Gondor camp. I shall summon the captains Aragorn sent with me. Then we will see who we have with us." Glorfindel gave Lindir a firm pat on his shoulder and walked off to summon the Men of Gondor.

... ...

Glorfindel sat with his back to his tent, people watching in the twilight. All day he had been finding people, naming the dead and trying to pull two thousand together from those he had brought from Gondor and the Elves of Imladris Erestor had led east. Their estimates had been a bit pessimistic, a runner from Brand came to tell him that they had another two hundred Men they could call upon. Glorfindel had sent them to Lani, knowing that she would be hard pressed on the slopes.

"Fin," a quiet voice murmured and he felt Erestor's hand on his shoulder. "You need to rest." Glorfindel shook his head, his mind was still cluttered with names and tactics, and the pressing problem the scouts had failed to solve. Valion had returned without his quarry, as had Matlar's leaderless rangers. Only Rúmil remained out. It was an unsaid fact that Mayra had re-joined the Easterlings, there was no other option.

"You go to sleep," he told Erestor gently. "You still have a few hours before we need to start moving."

"Sitting out here dwelling on the problems are not going to fix them, or put you in a good mood for the morning." Glorfindel smiled, taking the hand over his shoulder. Erestor looked even worse in the firelight, the shadows made his long face seem more sunken around his cheekbones. He was still beautiful, Glorfindel would be the first to say that, but he wasn't the bright eyed elf he had been in Gondolin, his smile no longer came so easily or so wide. Glorfindel traced the sharp line along his jaw slowly with his thumb, leaning closer to wrap his other arm around Erestor's thin waist.

"Glorfindel!" Celeborn's voice rang out loudly through the half-sleeping camp. Erestor gave him an amused smile, pushing him gently away towards the Lórien lord. Celeborn's face was drawn, his brow crumpled in a frown.  
"Rúmil found her."

For a moment Glorfindel stared at him, trying to find a reaction. His hand landed on his sword at his side as he returned the scowl.

"Right." He turned with Celeborn, aware that Erestor was following as they made their way back towards the command tent. Glorfindel spun around, catching the dark elf mid stride.  
"Stay here?" he asked quietly.

"No." Shouts broke off whatever argument they could have had, making them hurry along after Celeborn.

The command tent was surrounded by a crowd, mostly elves standing side by side silently. The noise came from the rabble of Men, pushing to the front and yelling their opinions loudly. Glorfindel followed Celeborn through the automatic parting their people made. At the entrance to the tent a circle of Lórien elves kept a space clear by their naked blades. Rúmil stepped forward and bowed to his lord.

"We have her, my lord," the march-warden said, spitting out the pronoun as if he was talking about a pile of filth not an elf. He turned around and Glorfindel saw their enemy for the first time. Long dark hair fell across her face, not quite hiding the pair of dark slanted eyes that glared up at them. Behind him Erestor recoiled slightly from the sheer hatred of that glare. Glorfindel repressed a shudder and held her gaze. He could not look at her without seeing Lindir's blue face in the snow, or Matlar's when they piled Hestlean on the funeral pyre along with their other casualties a few hours before. That fought the chill her hatred sent down his spine, boiling his blood in slow anger.

"Come again to serve your justice?" Mayra spat at them.

"Glorfindel," Celeborn murmured and almost stood to one side. It was Imladris law she had broken, he had to pass the sentence in Elrond's stead.

"Mayra, daughter of Branwen, you have broken the terms of your exile. You must now answer for the crimes for which you were exiled, as well as those we charge you of now. Murder, attempted and executed and treason. Do you have a defence to these crimes?" There was a long silence, even the Men waited for her answer. Glorfindel knew she could have no defence under their law, the fact that she was there showed she had broken her exile, they did not need evidence.

"My cause is right," she answered, her voice eerily quiet. Glorfindel looked away, something about her conviction made him uncomfortable. Galadriel had said the same thing, when they stared at the fires of Alaquonde. His father had said the same thing to justify the blood on his sword. They were right, their cause was just, all the reasons sounded empty.

"You have no defence," he told her. "By the laws of the elven, I find you guilty." The Men around him cheered and yelled and Glorfindel was thankful to find Brand at his elbow. He turned to the Dale Prince.

"Find me an executioner." Brand nodded, disappearing into the crowd. "Mayra, daughter of Branwen, I sentence you to death as the law decrees is fit sentence for your crimes." Glorfindel looked away, meeting Celeborn's eyes for a moment. The Lórien lord nodded minutely. Having someone else swing the blade did not settle his conscience.

"Rúmil, move her to the clearing outside the supply tent," Celeborn ordered as he began to send the crowd away. Elves melted into the shadows to leave Erestor and Matlar standing amongst the curious Men

"How is he?" Rúmil whispered as he passed his pale brother-in-law.

"He will live," Matlar answered and they all breathed out in relief. "With or without the use of his arm, we do not yet know."

"His sword arm?" The Mirkwood prince nodded glumly. It would be a blow to the youngest of the Marchwarden brothers to lose his sword arm, to be redundant. Once the three of them had guarded Celeborn's realm together, now Haldir was dead and only Rúmil still stood in one piece.

"He is alive," Rúmil repeated as he followed his rangers and their prisoner.

"Fin," murmured Erestor. "Are you alright?" The true answer would have been no, he was trying to work out why sentencing Mayra haunted him so much. "She has done terrible things, she caused a war against her own kin." Glorfindel did not trust himself to answer that.

"Let us get this over with," he muttered darkly, leading the way. Rúmil pushed Mayra down into the mud, torches lighting the night around them, throwing shadows over her dark face.

"My lord," Brand's voice called out. "None will wield the blade. Those whose company slew the Mirkwood prince did not survive the battle, the men are saying it is a curse to kill an elf. None will do it." A curse, Glorfindel thought sourly, there is, and worse than you know.

"Glor," Celeborn began but he had already drawn his blade.

"So be it." My inheritance, my Father's curse.  
Mayra never took her eyes off his blade as he approached.

"Kin-slayer," she spat. "Noldo, son of Gondolin. You cannot kill an idea, not once it makes a home in your head. Will you kill me to keep your niece safe? Is that worth a death?"

"Anything is worth that," he answered. "May your time in Mandos be peaceful." He raised the blade over her neck as Rúmil and another elf held her down.

"They should have kept you in there," she told him. "Did they send you back for this?"

"They sent me back to clear the way for salvation," he answered through gritted teeth.

The blade came down quickly, cutting cleanly through the flesh and bone.

"It is done," a quiet voice said and Glorfindel realised that he had been staring at the body for far too long, Erestor was pulling him away gently. "It is done, Fin, over."

"You are a fool if you think we have heard the last of this," he snapped, throwing his sword down. "Let us go home and wait for the storm." He ignored the shocked expression on Erestor's face as he pulled away. There was going to be a storm, the likes of which Erestor could barely remember. Glorfindel looked up at the sky, the clouds that covered the stars pressed low.  
"The warning bells have been sounded again, unlike Turgon I will listen."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_"I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,__  
__And presently took post to tell it you:__  
__O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,__  
__Since you did leave it for my office, sir."__  
__Romeo and Juliet (Act V Scene I), William Shakespeare_

Legolas dismounted at the bottom of the hidden path into the mountains. He could have ridden up it but his coming would have made too much noise. He preferred to go ahead silently past Faramir's guards. They had yet to catch a single elf on their way up and Faramir had asked for the chance to let them try. In the darkness the Ithilien rangers could hardly see, compared to the elves who walked as if in full daylight.

In the solitude of the hills he could think. Here the darkness of Mordor was already gone; although there were few trees there were no corpses. In the hills he could lose the companions Faramir saddled him with and let his mind wander. First, as it always did now, he thought of the sea, of the endless waves and the gulls reeling overhead. Everyday it took him longer to draw his mind and heart away from those thoughts. It invariably went next to his family, by coincidence or as a furtherance of his thoughts of leaving them. The might of Gondor protected Yarna back in Minas Tirith from any of Suaron's creatures, yet Legolas could not rest easily knowing she was so close to a more dangerous enemy. His father had the girls safely in the Halls, where they had been kept for the whole of the war. Legolas ran his hand along a branch idly, sighing. His brothers, none of them were as safe as his girls. Maybe Orision was, for the Halls of Mandos were safe. He hoped Thranduil had enough heart to keep Feuil at home, to keep his youngest carefully hidden from the forces of evil.

Legolas stepped out of the bushes behind the last guard, slipping inside the cave.

"You have blind men guarding the path, Captain," he told the young lord by the fire. The conversations of the rangers died down the moment they saw him until the only sounds were their breathing and the crackling fire.

"I have Men," answered Faramir. "More than that I cannot ask." Legolas smiled and turned away, setting his pack down with the others. He heard Faramir stand up slowly. He did not need to be graced to feel the tension in the cave, the expectation of impending disaster.

"Grave news will not tell itself," he said to them. Standing up straight he had several inches on Faramir but the Captain knew better than to stand too close for that to be apparent.

"If only it did and could spare me this duty." There was pain on Faramir's face behind the stubble that came from days in the wild. "You said to me once that you knew the pain I felt on learning of Boromir's death. It pains me now that you shall have to feel it again." Legolas felt a weight in his chest drop. His brothers' faces immediately filled his mind. Hestlean, brash and riding away into the forest with a bitter laugh, Legolas had not seen him since. The two younger boys, Matlar and Feuil, surely they were safe in the Halls. One of them was lost, following their eldest brother to the grave.

"What has happened?" he asked Faramir, his voice tight and drawn.

"Lord Celeborn has killed the elf traitor you will not name north of the Anduin. Prince Hestlean was with her, he was shot down." Relief came first: his little brothers were well, then guilt at that thought. They had had their differences, great ones that had threatened to divide their family and Legolas' marriage at times, but he was knocked back at the guilt he felt for being relieved at which brother it was.

"Lord Celeborn sent a letter," Faramir added kindly, handing it over. He retreated, the hushed conversations of before did not restart as the Men watched their Elven guest intently.

Glorfindel had added a word at the bottom, Legolas noted, after Celeborn's words of condolence and a brief explanation of the battle. They had destroyed the Easterlings in the hills and the army had broken up, making its way home in various directions. His brother's body had been burned with the enemy corpses. Even the eloquent Lorien Lord's words did nothing to gloss over that fact.

Legolas repulsed himself even more when he found the second, still sealed envelope underneath the first and almost smiled at the familiar hand. Matlar had written a handful of lines to him.

Legolas,  
Coming home would be dangerous. If you mean to go through with your plans for the girls' then fetch them to Rivendell or Lindon with all haste, it would be wiser to find Laurina or a cousin to take them. You are the eldest now but heed me well: any move you make will be seen as profiting from Hestlean's disgrace. His stain rubbed off on you. Let me smooth the ground out before you. I will send news when I reach the Halls.

Matlar

There was no mention of grief or even of Orophim's wound as in Celeborn's letter. Usually the most eloquent of them all, Matlar's words had the urgency of a general, the letter Legolas would expect Valion, his Father's Marchwarden to send. Somehow in the heat of battle and grief Matlar's mind still worked and he was thinking in the way their father had taught them. His logic was sound, however. Hestlean's departure nearly a century before would make Legolas' actions now suspect. Nonetheless he wanted to be there, to console his brothers and cousins as one of them was taken.

"If you have need of a messenger, the man who brought those letters will return to Minas Tirith before nightfall," Faramir told him from the fire. Legolas nodded his thanks and ducked into the small cavern they used as writing room. Someone had lit a candle on the desk, Faramir's papers were strewn about. Legolas cleared them to one side and sat down.

The candle flickered as he watched it, mesmerised for a moment. It cleared his head slightly, reminding him of something he had once heard. One by one all the candles were being blown out. He took up a pen.

He ended up writing three letters. One to Yarna, he did not bother with sympathy as she would not want his, he merely explain Matlar's plan to move the girls. It would be wiser for her to go to his father than him himself since she at least had no obvious ulterior motive.  
The second he wrote to Laurina, knowing he had to secure the household guards for whatever was about to come. She would keep his girls safe, and his brothers too.  
The third and by far the longest was to Erestor. That too was a request, that he take the girls and keep them in Imladris, the home of save guarded children.

Finally, he went back to staring at the candle. Grief was a strange thing, the idea that he would not see his brothers again for years. Then, he supposed, it was not really grief, since it was not an eternal good-bye. Again his thoughts went to the sea, beyond which now dwelt most of his family. His grandfather, his mother, two brothers- and to test his faith- a son. Grief was something best left to the Edain, he mused and blew the candle out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three****  
**

___This gentleman, the Prince's near ally,__  
__My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt__  
__In my behalf; my reputation's stain'd___

_Romeo and Juliet (Act III Scene I), William Shakespeare_

The throne room had always seemed dark to Laurina, especially after the brightness of the main hall. Yarna once had called it strange that they were not one and the same, as they were in Minas Tirith and once in the court of Lindon. Laurina had known no other layout. The difference seemed deeper than just a lack of windows along the walls of the circular hall. In the long main hall there would be music, laughter, innocence and pleasure. The throne room was full of dapper tones and secrets. Never more so, she thought, than that morning. The door opened with far too loud a creak, drawing every eye in the room towards her. With the precision of a hunter she took them all in. The blond elf standing with his hand lightly on the throne's arm, his face turned away quickly. Laurina knew everyone still saw Feuil as a child, the youngest of the five princes, yet there was nothing childlike about the Ellon in front of her. The black that had made Legolas look young made his brother look older, graver, and so much the image of his sire anyone would have been excused if they thought the king was standing there. It served only to highlight the absence of his father.

Beside the prince stood his niece. Barely of age, Xanthi still belonged in the schoolroom. She wrapped the sense of otherness her mother had around her, shrouding herself in difference. Her auburn hair lit up the lack of colour in the throne room in a way the pale blonds around her failed to do. Laurina noted with approval that Lady Ninphredil was absent, she did not want the distraction of the redhead out of the corner of her eye. Instead the company around the royals comprised only of Lady Soliel who stood in quiet conversation with Serwen, the ambassador from Imladris and Valion. Laurina went to stand beside him, the two military leaders together against the diplomats. If Serwen could be called a diplomat. Laurina had little patience for the dark Noldo, as did the majority of the Mirkwood court.

"The rest of the council is busy," Feuil said by way of explanation. There were two faces missing, as well the King's. "You have all heard." Serwen stepped forward, presumably to give her condolences. She still had not learnt that no one interrupted the sons of Thranduil, even an ambassador. Feuil never gave her chance. "My brother is making his way here. The threat of Mayra's rebellion has not ended." So he was saying her name now, Laurina remarked. It had to be a step, exiles were never named. Whatever she was, Mayra was no longer an exile.

Laurina glanced around, making a more careful not of who was there. Or more importantly, who was not. Feuil was surrounded by a few loyal councillors, but not his wife or cousin. Not even all of the King's council was there. If not Feuil's friends then whose, Laurina mused. Not the King's, there were too many distinguished Lords missing. Legolas' supporters, his allies, she realised. His daughter, his brother, three trusted friends and the ambassador to his wife's staunch allies. This was not a council to discuss the state of the kingdom. Feuil had chosen his stage to be the throne room not the council chamber. This was a declaration of support.

"It is not so much of a threat as a lingering annoyance," Valion said slowly. "Any remnants of the rebellion are lost without their leaders."

"The notion has been planted, that the old lords' time is done. That is more of a threat than an army." Soliel's voice was almost too quiet to distinguish from their breathing. Valion's weapons were swords and bows, fighting orcs and spiders. Something Laurina was more used to as well. This politicking, waging war with ideas was too insubstantial. Any fight needed an idea behind it, motivation, of course. This was new, more than just the petty jostling for power among the Mirkwood lords, or a frosty trade agreement with Dale. Laurina could look around at the faces Feuil had chosen to support his brother and noticed all too well that they were missing the only player who could sweep in and win in a single stroke.

"I fail to see why there is such uproar," Serwen inserted in her varnished accent. "The King still has three sons, yet I hear talk of the succession."

"Three sons," Feuil echoed. "Who are not kin to the majority of their people and who are in varying degrees- unsuitable." Laurina disagreed. Matlar, certainly, could never rule. He was clever, more so than any of his siblings, but he lacked the spirit needed to rule over a troublesome kingdom with difficult neighbours. Feuil was too inexperienced. In her mind it had to be Legolas, there was no doubt and there never had been. When his elder brothers had been with them there had been despair as Orision failed to show any talent for anything and Hestlean became too wild and arrogant. Laurina could not see a better outcome without changing the order of their births.

"Nonetheless," Feuil continued. "Legolas must formally take his place as crown prince. There is still a war going on, until peace time we must make the provisions of Men." Laurina remembered Hestlean once asking what was the point of being an heir to a king who never intended to not be a king. That had been nearly seven centuries ago in peace time.

"Alone the people would take him. What are the chances of us being able to put Princess Iseniel on the throne beside him?" Soliel tapped her crossed arms impatiently. "Another Sindar king, yes they will allow that, a Noldo queen, I doubt it." It irked Laurina that Soliel spoke of their people as if she was not part of that collective. She also seemed to forget that Legolas' eldest daughter was standing next to her, looking more than slightly annoyed. Legolas' friends, Laurina recalled with a sigh, we're not necessarily friends of his wife.

"They will." She spoke at last, the only Silvan present she had more of a measure of the people than the others did. "She is more well-loved among the people than she is at court." As terrible as it was, the one thing that had secured Legolas and his wife Yarna in the hearts of their people was the loss of their son. Collective grief and empathy outweighed any mistrust that had arisen from Yarna's Noldo blood. The only relationship it had soured was that with the King, who did not take the news too well.

"That is not hard," Soliel murmured. "Are they on their way?"

"No. Matlar and Orophim will arrive within the week. Legolas is not coming." His brother was dead, his father had lost a second son, Laurina expected Legolas to be there to console his family. Soliel nodded as if it was a wise decision. "This situation is new to us, for whatever comes next, I need to know you at least stand with me by my brother's side." Of course we do, Laurina told him silently, that is why you asked us here. They gave their assent, even little Xanthi nodded. "Hannon le, mellen nîn." They were dismissed, it appeared, Valion strode away at once with his usual preoccupied air. Laurina made to follow only for Soliel to step in front of her.

"You may be of the people but you do not know them all," the advisor told her sharply. "There are many who would have followed Mayra." And many more who follow causes you do not care to name, Laurina thought.

"Yet only Easterlings flocked to her banners," replied Laurina. "I know the people well, my lady." With a half bow she left, the columns of the throne room giving way to the high windows of the main hall.

There was no music in the half official mourning. The court wore black yet there was nothing to say that was not simply for the lives of Prince Matlar's rangers who were cut down. The few elves in the hall watched her with curious eyes. Lady Ninphredil was among them, hers was the only gaze Laurina met. She refused to let it stop her.

"Captain," a high voice called as she reached the long hallway that led to the guards' quarters. "A bird just came with a message for you." She took the letter from the young page and sent him on his way. Without waiting until she reached the privacy of her room she opened it.

Legolas' oblong writing covered the page like little headstones lined up row upon row. She was only a line into it when footsteps interrupted her.

"This game is not to be played using only swords," Soliel murmured as she passed. An advisor had no business in the guard's hallway, her presence there was out of place. "The sides to choose from are not so clear cut." She was gone before Laurina could call her back, not that she had the rank to do so.

Sides. Feuil had called her to stand behind Legolas come what may, which she would have done no matter what. The letter, as she read it, only solidified that conviction. Legolas asked her to protect his girls, and his brothers. He was not a prince in his letter, but a father, asking a friend to keep those he loved safe. There were no politics in that.

**I apologise for the sheer volume of OCs in this chapter but Tolkien only provided three elves in the whole of Mirkwood and this plot requires a large court.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,  
That murder'd me: I would forget it fain;  
But, O, it presses to my memory,  
Like damnèd guilty feeds to sinners' minds._

Romeo and Juliet (Act III, Scene II), William Shakespeare 

The forest road was long, longer than Matlar remembered it ever being before. Beside him Orophim's face grew paler with each step his horse took, his shoulders hunched over to the left instead of his usual spear straight posture. They needed to stop and let him rest, but pride and the dangers of the forest forced them on.

Matlar had enough faith in his rangers not to need to pay attention to every squeak that came from the forest. Instead he listened to Orophim's laboured breathing and gasps as the incline of the path changed and his body was jostled in a new direction. Matlar had begged him to stay in Lórien, their first port of call after the battle. Rúmil had done his best to keep his younger brother there as well, their cousin Leoa had added her voice but nothing could argue with Orophim's logic, as painful as it was. If the lingering poison was to kill him, he wanted to be with Matlar when it did. That thought tore at Matlar's heart as if the spear had entered his own chest. He had no choice but to go home and so Orophim refused to be left behind.

Every four hoof beats or so he would look over and meet Leoa's eye and they would share a concerned frown before looking back down at the path ahead or at Orophim.

The road did not lead to his Father's halls, nor did it lead anywhere at all. It simply petered out slowly into overgrown forest. The moment came when they had to turn north and follow the indistinct trails through the trees. Their pace slowed as they were forced to ride single file, making each of them vulnerable on the flanks. Twenty riders stretched out in one snaking column, their sense as alert as their fatigue would allow. On the road Matlar was willing to stop, he knew the forest well and could find safety. The closer they got to the Halls however, the more hostile their surroundings became and not from spiders or orcs. Matlar had seen elven swords face him on a battlefield and the instinctive trust in his own people had been shot down along with his brother.

Try as he might he could not stop thinking of Hestlean as that. He told himself that a traitor had no kin and that Hestlean was nothing to him, but he felt the confusing hole there had been when Orision fell. Matlar had no black clothes on him, only the brown and green of a ranger, and he had already made up his mind not to change into mourning when he had the chance. The court and his father could think what they liked, he had been the one to face Hestlean's army and he would not show any sadness for the loss of a traitor.

They did not stop at nightfall despite Orophim beginning to cough. Matlar stopped looking over at him, knowing that if he did he would call a halt. The rest of the wounded had been left behind in Lórien to heal, they were slowed only by Orophim. He judged they were still a several hours away from the Halls, they would reach them by dawn at the earliest.

A ranger at the forefront whistled a warning: unknown figures up ahead. Silently their weapons were unsheathed. Matlar beckoned for Leoa to move forwards slightly, as the least well-trained of the company she and a wounded Orophim were the weak spots. In the tightness of the trees riders were at a disadvantage, even with bows and swords drawn. They could not manoeuvre as they could in open terrain.

An answering whistle came back, high pitched and long. The Halls' guards. Still they did not sheath their weapons.

Kin, Matlar thought, but not necessarily friends. He dismounted and moved carefully to the front of their party.

"What Captain leads you?" he asked the figures he could make out in the darkness ahead. Blond hair could be mistaken for moonbeams, auburn for autumn leaves.

"Calen and the forest guard," came the familiar reply. "The King sent us to accompany you home, your Highness." Matlar nodded to his rangers to put away their weapons. Calen was not a Sindar politician. Matlar hoped at least that he could trust his father's guards. He kept his hand on his sword hilt anyway.

Calen emerged from the trees, his red hair hidden by a helmet. Matlar must have looked mistrustful, too tired and worn to keep a cold face for Calen quickly removed it and bowed.

"We were told there would be many wounded," he said as he looked down the ranks.

"Most stayed in Lothlórien, they will return with the rest of the company when they have healed." Matlar turned around sharply and remounted. "The forest is dangerous, Captain, let us make haste." Calen melted into the trees and his guards began to move ahead, surrounding them. Matlar's rangers had their hands close to their quivers as they rode on and even in the confines of the trees they grouped together protectively around Orophim.

The sun never rose in the forest, not with the sudden shining brilliance it did over the plains. Instead it was gradual; a slow seeping light that melted the shadows into their only barely smaller daytime shapes. The night birds dove for cover as the larks and blackbirds began to sing, heralding the arrival of day above the trees.

They were singing when Matlar heard the low whistle of a guard and they came at last to the clearing in front of the gates. The rock face gave no sign of being anything but, until he rode forward. It did not part, or show that it parted until they had passed through, forwards it was nothing more than a rock face, as he turned back to look at Orophim he could see the great doors rising high into the mountain, covered in runes and reliefs.

Calen and the guards turned back into the forest with a bow to Matlar, their task done. Slowly the company dismounted, Matlar and Leoa supporting Orophim. He dismissed his rangers who filed away towards the stables, taking the three royals' horses as well.

"Father can wait," Matlar murmured and they made their way to his chambers. Outside two healers were already waiting.

"Go," came the quiet voice once they had him in bed and bandaged up. On the white sheets even Orophim's hair lacked any colour. Matlar cupped his cheek gently, with no desire to leave. How could he, when his entire world was lying deathly pale with poison at the hands of his own brother?

"Matlar?" Feuil's voice was harsh in the doorway. It had been but a moment since Leoa and the healers left them in peace.

"Go," Orophim told him again, his voice a crack above a whisper. "I will be here." Perhaps it was childish to believe him but Matlar stood and faced his younger brother.

"Why are you in black?" he asked at once. "There is no one to mourn." Feuil blinked, looking taken aback.

"Clearly you have not yet seen father." Matlar cast one last glance at Orophim's now closed eyes and shooed Feuil into the corridor.

"Go and change, and get whoever else is in mourning out of it," he snapped. Feuil had the privilege of being the only person Matlar dared snap at. Not his older brothers and certainly not one of the girls. Feuil stood at the bottom of the pecking order and so could be relied upon to do firmly as he was told. Matlar wondered if that had helped shield him from ever meeting their father's wrath.

"Our brother is dead." Matlar looked away for a second, a trick Erestor had shown him to make it seem as if he was tired and pensive when it gave him time not to lash out.

"Did Yarna mourn when her father was lost?" he asked Feuil sharply. "Hestlean was a traitor, just like Saruman." There was no conclusive proof that the wizard was dead. When it came Yarna would never show the slightest hint of grief to anyone.

Feuil had outgrown his immediate older brother by a good two inches, making his pout lack any impact when viewed from below.

"He is in mother's gardens," Feuil answered sourly and turned with all the graceful poise he could muster. Matlar felt his stomach tighten slightly. Had their father been in a council chamber, or even his own rooms then he would have the courage to go to him at once. In the Queen's gardens however, Matlar shrank from the idea of meeting him there, of seeing him in the place that left him vulnerable.

Go he did, nonetheless. Through the hushed hallways, returning the bows that greeted him with stiff nods. The Queen's gardens took up a small section of the surface level, above the chambers where Legolas and Yarna pretended to live when they pretended they could settle for more than a decade in any one place, and surrounded on one side by the nursery, on the other by the rooms that had until recently been Orision's and Hestlean's. At that time of year the gardens had few flowers in, the colours came from leaves and heathers. Yarna had planted a bed of golden flowers, Matlar could not bring their name to mind, that never wilted or lost their petals. Enduring.

The Elvenking sat among the sleeping roses, deep red robes making up for the absence of red buds on the stalks.

"Matlar," Thranduil stated in a dull, uninterested voice.

"Adar." Sitting on the edge of the low stone wall that separated the roses from the lawn, Matlar was opposite the bench on which his father sat.

"Your brother does not come." Legolas stayed in Ithilien, as Matlar had advised. There was barely concealed pain in that statement. "Instead he sends her." Yarna. Matlar could have laughed at his brother's lack of tact. In the moment when their father was grieving for a lost son Legolas chose to send the one elf who could frustrate and annoy the king the most. It was not however overly laughable.

"He does not want-"

"I can see why he does it," Thranduil cut his son off brusquely. "Go, a council will be called and you shall have to take Legolas' place." Matlar of course did not merit a place of his own, only one in his brother's absence. "They will deal with the results of this, treachery." The word sounded bitter, a word used for Noldor, dwarves or Men not their own people. "Go." There was a fundamental difference in the way he said it to how Orophim had whispered the word. Thranduil ordered, sharply, as you wave away a fly. Matlar knew which one he would prefer to hear.

A tiny face looked out from the nursery window at him and his face softened. Lilleila tilted her head owlishly as she surveyed him. He inclined his head towards her, receiving an exuberant wave. It had been nearly a year since the elfling had seen her parents, a year since her father had said farewell to leave for Imladris and the unknown. Even longer since her mother had been there. Someone must have called her away inside, with one final wave her face disappeared from the window and Matlar realised suddenly that his father had left the gardens as well.

Somewhere, deep at the back of his mind he remembered a summer's day when he had first lost a brother. Barely as high as his father's waist he could recall the scene as vividly as a portrait. Legolas and himself running down the Queen's gallery, each with a handful of bedraggled wild flowers clasped tight, determined to be the first to give them to their mother as she sat with her ladies and handmaidens in the garden. Matlar had come shooting out of the doorway first, skidding around the bushes when Legolas simply bounded over them. There was a large age gap between then yet they were close to looking like twins as Matlar grew quickly before he stopped altogether to be the smallest his brothers. He had reached the company first, bowing breathlessly to his mother as he held out the flowers, their petals scattered to the winds along the gallery. She had accepted them with a smile he barely saw, having turned in triumph to Legolas. Legolas who was staring at the dark haired girl holding a harp. Matlar had felt something give, a familiar constellation was suddenly missing from the sky. He had watched as Legolas held out the flowers to the girl, claiming them to be a welcoming gift to the daughter of the West.

Matlar found himself standing in the same spot, staring at the tree Yarna had been sitting under. She had told Legolas haughtily that his flowers were not particularly well preserved from their journey and he had told her she looked worn out from travelling so far as well. The laughter had broken the moment and only Matlar had seen her take the flowers and place them carefully in between the pages of the music book she had been playing from.

He hastened from the gardens, winding his way back below ground to his chambers and Orophim. His father was right, a council would be called and he would have to serve. There he was with what remained of his family and his people, but he was alone apart from Orophim who could do nothing but comfort him, and Feuil, who after all was little more than a child.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The council was called within the hour. Thranduil looked around the table, the circular wood made all but the two seats next to him equally far away. They filed in, each bowing as they stood behind their place. He watched impassively, waiting. Matlar took the seat to his right, Soliel to his left and he was left facing his two generals and the other advisors.

He saw the glances his advisors shared, silently discussing him. Indifference, that was all he dared show them. His son was dead, worse than that, damned and destined to wait in Mandos as long as a Noldo prince. Thranduil could not allow them to see the anger, the self-loathing at having let his son fall so low. Hestlean had been the best, could have been the greatest of the boys. If one day he felt the call to pass into the West, it would have been Hestlean Thranduil would have chosen, even over Orision. Yet Hestlean was disgraced, and Thranduil could not mourn him. He could only look at his council and offer them the cold uncaring face they had always seen.

"What remains of the Easterling force in the south?" he asked Matlar as soon as they were all seared and settled.

"Routed foot soldiers, caught between a forest they do not know and Lord Celeborn's forces. He has our permission to enter the southern borders until we all agree that the threats have been neutralised." He had lost the mumble Thranduil had always found irritating, although when it had gone exactly escaped him. Perhaps after Legolas left for Imladris, or maybe sooner. "He, along with the residual troops we have there will flush them out." Then that was one less thing Thranduil had to think about. Destroying the Easterlings was not enough to make up for losing his son. He had a keen desire to run them down himself nonetheless.

"Vanion." The general straightened as his name was called. "The situation in Dol Guldur-"

"Is stable, the cleansing is taking time and it is still fraught with danger. I would ask leave to return there myself and oversee." Thranduil weighted it up before Vanion had even finished speaking. He had been meaning to send either him or Laurina, and he now had a vested interest in keeping any Silvan with military training close to home. Thranduil did not know Vanion's officers as much as he should have; a few faces came to mind, most of them he could not name.

"Prince Feuil will accompany you." Feuil needed practice at leading troops, leading a forest patrol was not enough. Legolas had started training for leadership when he was younger than Feuil. Now the boy was the third eldest, and fate appeared to be going after his family lately. There had always been a hope, at the back of his mind that Hestlean would come back to the light before too long and he could avoid leaving anything to Legolas.

"Your Grace, what of the dissent in the south?" Soliel asked him after he had been silent too long.

"As soon as he is able, Matlar will re-join Lord Celeborn and cleanse the forest and our southern border of any shadows left by the orcs." He refused to answer her question, or even acknowledge that there was a subject to it. It was not a matter for such a large council. He knew with whom he could discuss it and they were not present.

Thranduil did not give his son a glance for a good long while after that, to keep him from assuming that it was a kindness, allowing him to stay in the Halls whilst Orophim recovered. The council shifted towards discussing border patrols with Dale, Soliel kept touching on the subject of the south without answer.

"Cedwar," Thranduil asked suddenly, cutting Vanion off in the middle of his report on the northern border and the lingering effects of Angmar. "It seems to us that we should meet these new kings of Men." The rulers of the second born changed too frequently for them to bother keeping up, it was the new dynasties that now occupied new thrones in Middle Earth that Thranduil wanted to get a measure of. After all, the chances of his people still dwelling there after a few lifetimes of Man were slim.

"King Elessar of Gondor has already suggested that he would be willing to formally meet." Elessar, or Aragorn as he was referred to in Legolas's infrequent and ill-written letters, of course he would be pleased to meet his friend's father. Thranduil thought about asking Yarna if she could teach his son to write eloquently as befitted a Prince instead of a military list of points with as much imagery as a blank canvas. "And King Bard."

"Find somewhere suitable and have Celeborn come as well." He would have been lying if he had claimed the idea as his own. Celeborn had coerced him into promising to do it after the fall of Dol Guldur. Thranduil had no intention of asking the Lords of Imladris along however.

They had been there for hours already, Thranduil knew and anything left to be said could be dealt with at another time. He stood and the others followed.

"Soliel," he said, dismissing the others. She alone stayed. Matlar paused only to carry on. Hestlean would have said more; even Legolas was more lively at the conference table than his younger brother. Thranduil turned to his chief advisor and made an attempt at forgetting the shortcomings of his son. Soliel had some sort of smirk in place as they were left alone. "Has either of them called a council yet?" Feuil already had, immediately after the news came. Thranduil would have applauded his initiative had it been the boy's idea. Instead every idea came from Serwen, inserted into Feuil's ear subtly.

"Matlar is no doubt waiting for the princess." Only their show of support for their kin stood in his boys' favour in his mind. Both the younger ones firmly behind Legolas, although Thranduil refused to accept that there was another option. His son would stand in place, with Hestlean gone it mattered very little which one it was.

Soliel was still watching him, amused.

"I am not incapable of dealing with what must be done," he told her sternly. She took liberties, not as many as Erestor did over Lord Elrond, and only when there was no one else there to observe them.

"How can you deal with an enemy you refuse to see?" she asked him.

"I see everything. Go." She curtseyed and left him to glower at the table surface, his eyes tracing the lines of the tree etched onto the surface. A tree of Doriath, it had been saved as a relic for millennia. He saw everything, it was true. He saw more than Soliel or Matlar or Serwen ever imagined he did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six****  
**

In the darkness he saw the flames lapping up around him. When he opened his eyes they danced in the shadows in the corner of his vision. Sitting down he felt himself falling. As he paced his feet told him he was running down the hidden tunnel again. He lay down only to be reminded of the ground rising up to meet him as he was smashed against it.

Riding had been the easy part. Long hours in the saddle as Asfaloth carried him across the plains that made up the field of Celebrant. Erestor had ridden quietly beside him, giving up on his questions when he received nothing more than perfunctory answers. Even Lindir, who had been called upon to keep up a stream of verses fell silent when his father rode by.

Silence, Valar knew how used Glorfindel was to silence. Fire was loud, as loud as screams and battle. Therefore he turned to silence. The cold white silence of a hall lived in by the dead.

It was silence that had greeted them in Lórien. Galadriel stood tall and glistening as the four lords made their way up to the flet. Affection had never made its way to Doriath for Celeborn greeted his wife with nothing but a long glance and the briefest of touches to her wrist. It had been Matlar she greeted next, asking after Orophim. The young Prince had not stayed more than a week, the healing powers of Lothlórien and his inability to argue with Orophim sent the Mirkwood party on their way quickly.

Finally Galadriel had turned to Erestor and asked:  
"The wind whispers many things, songs of times long past and threats made true. Should we heed what we hear?"

Erestor had simply looked down, heavy with the grief that came from not understanding. Galadriel could have asked Glorfindel instead, she should have yet she refused to look as him. Not in an age, now two, had an elf been sentenced to death. There was an aurora of never again around it, after Doriath, after Sirion. No elf should take the life of another.

Glorfindel had little recollection of how he passed the time between that meeting and Matlar's departure. They had too many wounded to move on and Erestor was reluctant to lead their people home so soon. Glorfindel filled in the blanks with nightmares, the gold of the forest morphed into many things. A ring, a set of golden eyes staring at him in the darkness, a sea of tiny innocent golden heads running circles around a tree. Or something older, a gold he dimly remembered. A world of colour and light that he had turned his back on. Gold, the sunrise over Alqualondë, the sight of his aunt's fair tresses lying frozen in the snow. His nightmares changed the red fires to golden pools of molten flesh, burning him as they dazzled him. Gold was cursed, for it awoke fell things in the deep.

"Glorfindel." Her voice broke through, her strong deep voice that carried over the glaciers and the crying, as powerful as the voice that had called them back.

"Artanis." For she was Artanis before she was Galadriel, and she was not changed.

"Your thoughts wander far; do not forget those who are here."

"I am not grieving," he told her. Not for his parents, nor his siblings. Not for Turgon or Idril or Ecthelion. Not even for his home. He knew who was there. Two kin-slayers, two accursed loved by the pure and doomed in the eyes of the gods.

"Then you regret- what exactly I cannot tell."

"I regret the day we stood and thought ourselves gods. I regret the day we dared dream of another realm."

"Those regrets are long past, you dwell in another age, Glor. Regret North Undeep, regret Sauron, but do not regret the crossing." She sounded weary, thin. A parchment crushed under the weight of a book for too long that when the reader turned the last page it had been turned to dust and they could not read the ending.

"Then I shall tell you my troubles start and end with North Undeep, will that satisfy you?"

"Erestor is worried. He is too young to understand what we went through. It is nothing but a child's nightmare in his mind, cold and misty. What does he remember except being born into frost and winter? He might as well have never seen Elvenhome, his home was Beleriand. He worries, Glor, that he can bring up memories he does not have. The only strife he knows not to mention is Gondolin. He has never held another life in his hands." She had, Glorfindel remembered, and he had wanted her to be there when it was his turn. At Alqualondë they had come side by side, only his sword was clean. That, Erestor had told him, was the night they had met. Of those who came back, a boy remembered a young golden lord marching up the hill, his sword shining bright and clean as he wept.

"What harm can befall me?" Glorfindel asked her. He caught the disapproving glare she gave him and stood from where he had been cross legged on the ground.

"Do not hurt him by saying that."

"You see him as a child, more so than Elrond I think. He has seen as much of the darkness as any of us." Too much darkness, even if his hands were clean Erestor had fallen far. Sometimes Glorfindel wondered how far, in the shadows of Dol Guldur, in Sauron's dungeons when all hope of light was lost, how far had his beloved fallen?

"Seen it, yes. He has not felt it in his blood. He worries for you, Glor, for he loves you and cannot bare to lose you again. Not in death, perhaps, I do not think that is what he fears now. It is who you are that he fears losing."

"I am not going to go mad." He had always been haunted, no one could have gone through what he had without being so. He had not spent enough time in Valinor to rid himself of grief.

"I do not need reassuring, he does." Glorfindel reached out to lean one arm against the mallorn tree. There was a distance between him and Erestor now, when he bolted upright from his dreams, the memory of hitting the crevice floor searing through him he pushed the hand that reached out to him away and would walk among the trees or hide himself up in the branches when once he would have buried himself in that lean hard chest and shoulder.  
"Celeborn's library," she murmured. Glorfindel left her, walking through the trees.

Lórien was pure, as pure as any place in Middle Earth could feasibly be. Walking its paths, Glorfindel felt as if he soiled them. Artanis did too, she spread something dark and evil across the land she lit up. Forgiveness had been given, long ago for what he had witnessed, and the crimes he had committed in walking away from the light. That had been before, when the worst he had done was fail to stop the murder at Alqualondë. Now, he had fallen further. The thought of soiling something as fragile as the elf who sat across from Celeborn, frowning at the runes in front of him, that was the stuff of nightmares. Glorfindel stepped into the library doorway and watched them struggle through a problem written millennia ago, heads bent close together with only the occasional murmur to show that they were awake.

"Melda." They both looked up as Glorfindel spoke, Celeborn's head dipping straight back down to the paper. The faintest of smiles graced Erestor's lips. "Walk with me?" It was not that important, whatever they were working on, since he did not even glance down at it as he stood up. Glorfindel led the way down the stairs to the ground, offering his hand to Erestor as he turned back on the last one.

"You do not owe me an apology," Erestor said at last.

"Will you make me throw away the carefully planned one I had?" They were smiling, barely but in the light their smiles seemed wider.

"You are upset over something you had no choice in. No feasible choice, before you start. You did not like it and nor should you have. But you do not deserve to be placed with the sons of Fëanor because of it." Glorfindel wondered when they had stopped walking along, instead Erestor was tracing lines on a mallorn trunk that seemed far enough away from the flets to be private.

"It has lifted the lid on a chest of terrors I presumed to be locked. There is a storm coming, Erestor. A feeling of knowing what it to come hangs over me."

"Three evils, that was all that was foretold." There it was, deep at the back of his eyes, the spark of innocence that had not been dimmed by the Doom spoken to them in the wilderness.

"Perhaps this shall not come close to Alqualondë or Doriath, or Sirion. Perhaps no orphans shall be made. Yet I can feel it anyway, whatever logic or reason is presented. Mayra, she fought for an idea, that we were not good enough. That the Noldor and the Sindar lords should go, that the blood of Beleriand of old should be washed away. Us, Thranduil, Celeborn, we should leave Middle Earth be. That was her cause."

"Her cause may be seen in whatever light you wish, her methods do not justify it." Erestor looked ahead coldly. "Disagreeing with your lord, I can understand that. Poisoning him and an innocent boy, that I will never comprehend." Mayra had been of Silvan extraction, Morequendi. Resentment for the Noldor, the Teleri and the Sindar of Beleriand who had crossed east at the end of the First Age, that was her motive. A desire for change. "Fin. Whether she was right in her principles or not, the way things stand have allowed us to carry out the tasks required of us. Tell me how to rid it from your mind so that it does not plague you." The hand that had been holding his had now slid up to his shoulder, the two of them leaning closer slightly.

"We cannot make the demons leave," Glorfindel said, his voice quiet with regret. "One day we shall have to leave them." It would only serve to make them both sad, Glorfindel's heart could never rest this side of the sea yet Erestor heard only silence instead of the cries of gulls when the world fell still. One day, they were holding onto the hope that it would come. Erestor had no answer for that, turning away to stare at the grass. "Melda-" His answer was a brief kiss, Glorfindel barely had time to feel the warmth pressed up against him before it was gone.

"Celeborn will spend another century translating the dwarvish unless I go back and help him." Glorfindel let him take three steps before catching him.

****_**This takes place about the same time as the last chapter, maybe before but Glorfindel isn't paying much attention to time. Maura's name has changed to Mayra after I discovered it's a common name.**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Once, the court would have held its autumn feast out in the forest, lights creating patterns on the trees as they danced in the clearings. Now, as Laurina looked down the main hall the columns seemed a poor substitute for trees, candles nothing more than a bad imitation of stars. There were dancers; she watched them from the side-lines, forming neat lines and circles around each other, each step perfect. She did not dance, with a sword she was graceful but she had never leaned the steps. Only Orision had coaxed her out, the eldest prince had as much a head for it as she did. Together they had circled off to one side until Yarna and Hestlean came over with their eternal laughter, dragging them apart so that Laurina found herself dancing a backwards quickstep with the tiny brunette elleth whilst the court laughed at the two brothers both trying to lead unsuccessfully. That had been in the forest, before the darkness came. When they had been young and smiles came easily and bright without a hesitation for propriety or place. It had been a different world when a Silvan girl could dance with the King's son and a Noldo could smile whilst wearing her Father's mantle.

There was no dark haired elf in a dress decorated with white hands. Laurina watched a single redhead move through the dancers, pretending she was watching someone else.

"Where are the children who fought dragons and balrogs with sticks and quilt cloaks?" She heard a deep voice say behind her. Thranduil's head was close to Soliel's but his voice only a fraction too loud to keep it from keen eared guards mere feet away. It appeared her mood was more universal than she had thought.

"They fight with true swords now, and all the dragons are dead," Soliel replied. The dragon had cost the king a son; whilst he had been dealing with the dwarves Orision had been left to command a patrol with Mithrandir south to Dol Guldur. It had been the wizard who led the company back to the halls, the prince carried on a bier. Dead. No dwarf or Man had known of their grief, it was silent and unshared with others.

"Dragons, perhaps, but not balrogs." Laurina knew it was not her place to understand the king, even if she could. Smaug, the last dragon, was dead, the balrog of Moria vanquished by Mithrandir. Perhaps it was a metaphor, the king had a love for those. She let her brow crease slightly as she tried to puzzle it out.

"Captain." Her lieutenant hastened from the side door, stopping close enough for his words to be private. "You are needed at the gate." Not an attack, the whole court would have been told. A wounded patrol coming in then? Laurina walked sedately to the small door before breaking into a sprint along the guard's passage, built to provide a quick access to the gate.

"What is happening?" she demanded the sentries as she came out into the dark autumn evening.

"A friend is riding through the forest," someone told her. A friend. The code for a Wood elf, one of their own, yet who would be foolish enough to ride through the forest alone at night? The gates opened to let the lone rider in. Laurina recognised the horse immediately.

"Yarna."

"Laurina." Whether it was simply her mind making connections or not, Laurina thought that the flourish with which Yarna dismounted, her grey cloak rippling was the image of Saruman. If it was only white.

"You are early, Matlar arrived three days ago."

"I did not have wounded with me." Yarna had left Lona to one of the stable master's grooms who led the horse away, and clasped Laurina's shoulder. "It seems to have been a long time."

"Not even two years."

"Time stretches out when there is a war." Yarna had changed, she wore Lindon armour now, scales of blue and grey metal over her torso and shoulders. Laurina had seen her in armour once before, when they stormed Dol Guldur. Yarna had not emerged with her armour. It would be reasonable to assume she had worn it at Fornost, but Laurina could not held picturing the girl, for they had been only girls when they stormed the dark fortress.

"Will you change before seeing the King?" Yarna fixed her with a cold yellow stare.

"He can wait. I want to see the girls first." Laurina managed to give her a shocked smirk at the casual insubordination in her tone as Yarna swept past her down the hallway. She unfastened her sword belt and gloves as she went.

"Is there a good place to start with my questions?" asked Laurina, striding alongside in an effort to keep up. So much had happened in the space of so short a time.

"I dipped in and out of events. The short version is that there is a current vacancy for dark lord in Middle Earth. One our esteemed brother coveted." Laurina had expected sorrow, grief from the elleth who at one point it had been suggested might marry Hestlean instead of his younger brother. Nothing, just a silently hurried step towards the nursery. It was late, the dancers had started after the feast and the two princesses had long been sent to bed by their aunt.

"The court is in the middle of the autumn festival," Laurina added.

"I will not disturb them then yet." They had reached the nursery, Yarna having removed most of the armour she could whilst walking. "I still need to speak with you." Instead of leaving Laurina hovered by the shut door, not quite a guard. Yarna strode into the small chamber, liberally sprinkled with toys and books. She stepped over the map that had been spread on the floor, tiny models of armies contested its surface.

"Naneth!" A tiny silver storm came running out from the next room, Lilleila attaching herself to Yarna's armoured waist. Xanthi followed her sister. Their voices dropped to a murmur that Laurina made an effort not to overhear.

After a moment Yarna came back to the door, putting her greaves back on but leaving the sword where it was.

"How is Orophim?" asked Yarna.

"His arm was saved, he will not hold a bow again for many years." The Lórien consort was still too weak to leave his chambers, Laurina only knew of his condition from word passed around.

"Acceptable?" She looked Yarna up and down: her scaled armour was clean enough, even if it wasn't straight. She patted down the wayward strands of hair.

"Ask a lady." The hall doors opened and they were through into the crowd of courtiers. The conversation hushed slightly.

"The Princess Greenleaf," the guard at the door announced. Laurina knew she faded into the background as people watched Yarna instead of her. The dancers had stopped, parting to let her through. Yarna bowed in the eastern style, her hand on her heart as she inclined her head. Serwen always curtsied, as had the last Noldo ambassador.

"Princess." The King stood, flanked by Soliel and Feuil. "Welcome home."

"Hannon le, hir nin." Yarna bowed again and her presentation was finished. The music caught on and the dance resumed. Laurina, at her friend's side, caught the rest of the King's address.

"We gave our dues to the heroes of the piece, I assume."

"We did. Our presence was felt enough to be remembered." The King nodded slowly before he half waved her away. He did not ask after Legolas, nor did he praise her on her part in the war. Soliel had his attention again, explaining Dale economics.

For want of somewhere else to go, Laurina stayed by Yarna.

"Feuil." The Prince smiled at her and moved to embrace her. After a second she gave him a lightly reproving scowl. "I thought we agreed to keep Xanthi away from events." Even in a hushed tone she made both the Wood Elves pale. Feuil opened his mouth to no avail.

"We are all pieces, Princess," Soliel's voice added, her conversation with the King must have ended for they had drifted away from the throne. "Even if we do not wish to be." 

"Forgive me, brother," Yarna replied, her smile not extended to Soliel. "I will take my quarrel to the puppet-master instead." She stepped towards the King, bowed and Laurina watched her go. Xanthi, she recalled, had barely said two words in public since her parents left. She had been trotted out along with her younger sister occasionally, Laurina had even seen her training with the young guards but she had no political presence. It made no sense, puppet masters and pawns. Feuil looked perplexed as well, Soliel as smug as a dragon.

"Lady Ninphredil," Feuil said suddenly, bowing to the figure who had come up behind Laurina. Of everyone in the hall, it had to be her who chose the moment when the world was too complicated.

"Feuil." Ninphredil had known the princes since they all occupied the nursery that now stood almost empty. "Captain." Laurina managed a stiff incline of her head, fixated by a point on the floor that clearly was not the Sindar Lady. "My partner appears to have vanished and I am in need of another." The invitation hung in the air for a moment too long, Feuil trying to catch Laurina's resolutely downcast eye.

"Then do me the honour," he said at last. For it is an honour above me, Laurina added silently.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Matlar had given up trying to sleep in his own room, every hour had him back to check that Orophim was sleeping peacefully and had not given up on breathing in his absence. The healers, Leoa among them said he was a fool and that Orophim would recover. Not entirely, they dared not lie to him. Matlar had taken to sitting on the edge of the bed, Orophim's healthy hand in his, all ideas of sleep forgotten as he kept watch.

The footsteps alerted him before the gentle knock on the door, Orophim had been put in a small antechamber close to the healers' offices and the door was left unlocked.

"May I disturb?" a soft voice asked from the doorway. Matlar turned around, smiling.

"Yarna." She slipped her arm around his shoulders as she bent down next to the bed. Her face was strained, more so than it had been when she had left but it was a welcome sight. "We missed you." When his siblings had been scattered two years before, sent to the edges of the world to fight their enemy he had been so afraid that none of them were coming back. Hestlean had not.

Sensing his train of thought she squeezed his shoulder before pulling a chair near.

"It was no seven year siege this time." That was true, three thousand years ago their parents' generation had besieged Barad-dûr for seven years. A short end to a war they had been fighting for over an age. "Legolas nearly left Aragorn each time news reached him." Matlar chuckled lightly.

"And we called Hestlean the headstrong one." Both of their faces fell at the thought. "How are you faring?"

"He was dead to me the day he left," she replied. Matlar did not call her out on her lie. "Did we teach Legolas prose? His letters have a similar writing style to a dry rock."

"I shall go ahead and blame you for that." No doubt Legolas would have written to her in a way that resembled approaching her with a long stick, ready for her to snap at any moment. "Do not tell me you were perfectly composed when you read Celeborn's letter." Yarna stared at the floor instead of replying. "I thought not."

"The Enemy is dead, yet now we fight among ourselves."

"It is better than doing so whilst we are at war." Matlar brushed a strand of hair back from Orophim's cheek. "No one knows what will happen now, do they?"

"No, but we are all gathering around like cautious puppies around their master before a storm." Yarna sighed, pulling the travel plait that had held her hair up out and letting it fall across her shoulders. "Mayra and Hestlean started something, the idea that the Sindar have no right to rule the Silvan realms. An idea used against the Noldor more than once."

"An idea used between the Noldor," Matlar hastened to add.

"True. Mayra hated Elrond and the Lords of Imladris, by extension Galadriel and Celeborn. Hestlean's quarrel was with Legolas. They are gone, but those who take up their call will not be so specific. Wanting Elrond, Legolas, even your father dead is one thing. Wanting to cast down every Sindar or Noldor lordship in Middle Earth? As Hestlean proved, that is the basis for another Alqualondë." Matlar shuddered at the name. The first kin-slaying, when elf killed elf.

"It will not come to that," Matlar said at last. "Never. Father is not cruel, there is no discontent, and no Doom foretold against us."

"No. Then why must I plan out our game with Soliel and Serwen? Why did I feel as if I had walked back into Mordor when I stepped into the Hall?"

"Because you have disliked Serwen for years and you are jealous that Father heeds Soliel's counsel when he dismisses yours out of hand. You are tired and still have shadows clinging to your hair."

"Anyone in armour innately distrusts people," Orophim murmured sleepily. Matlar ran a soothing hand along his pale cheek instinctively. "You both talk too loudly."

"Forgive me, I should go and find something less distrustful to wear." Yarna shot them both a smile and shut the door on her way out.

"Matlar?" He turned to Orophim, smiling down at him gently. "She is in danger here without Legolas. Saruman will not easily be forgotten." The effects of Saruman's betrayal would have been more widely felt in Lórien, enflamed by Lady Galadriel's hatred for the White Wizard. Nonetheless, Yarna's adopted name was only going to hurt her. "She- must distance herself from Isengard."

"Iseniel. Daughter of the Isen. Eorl gave her that name before the fortress was given to the wizard. It does not matter now, you should rest." That only served to make Orophim stir even more and attempt to sit up.

"It matters. You have to play a part in this, instead of sitting here with me. I am not going to die, my love." His words were faint and every one of them hit Matlar. He knew Orophim was right and accepted the gently hand that found his wrist. "Yarna and her daughters will be the first they come for, if not the reason. What better way to rid the realm of the Sindar than call them Noldor? Legolas would be tainted, and so would you for marrying me, the subject of a Noldo, the niece of Fëanor: no less." Matlar opened his mouth to protest. "Let, me, finish." Orophim's voice came in short gasps as he sagged back. "We do- not know what will happen. We just, have to keep her safe." His eyes fluttered shut as the effort of being awake wore him out. "Matlar?"

"Melda?"

"It is cold in here." Matlar stood immediately to close the door and find the draft. "Idiot. That was your cue." Sheepishly he lay down gently next to him, wrapping his arms around the now thin and cold figure. Orophim was asleep within moments, his head cradled in the crook of Matlar's neck.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Aragorn had sent for them, Legolas wondered if he was imagining the change in tone from friend to king. Faramir's rangers were ready within an hour and they left the hidden caves, joining the west road before midday.

"No tidings?" asked Faramir as his horse fell into step beside Arod.

"None." If Yarna made good time she should have reached his father's Halls already. Legolas would have expected her to send word, if just to let him know that she was safe.

"Messages take time." Faramir had enough letters from Edoras to fill his pillow twice over, each one replied to the same day. Legolas wondered if somewhere, perhaps Isengard or Imladris, there was a stash of his letters. Not that they were anything to marvel at, rarely did he pass the five line mark.

Faramir fell back into silence. He was not Gimli by any means, he did not prattle on endlessly about everything under the sun. Legolas found himself missing the irritating dwarf, his back felt exposed without his friend seated behind him. There were no offhand sly remarks from Yarna either, and in the polite silence Legolas realised how isolated he was, so far away from any friends as he waited for them to play out his moves in this game on his behalf.

Faramir set a fast pace and they reached Osgiliath within a day. The city was still scarred, Aragorn's limited resources could not be spared to rebuild it anytime soon. Minas Tirith rose up before them out of the mountains, its walls speckled with smoke marks and holes made by enemy trebuchets. Legolas kept his eyes firmly ahead, refusing to look at the blackened mounds that had once been Oliphants or piles of carcasses. The gate to the city opened automatically before them, people scattering as the horses came through.

The throne room was empty, Legolas saw how Faramir stopped short at that. He doubted that the Stewards ever left the hall disused. A dark patch of marble showed where the Stewards' chair had stood for centuries. Even Legolas' footsteps threatened to echo in the empty air.

"Come," Legolas called gently. "Aragorn is not here." Faramir was very far from over his father's death. They left the long silent hall for the twisting corridors flanked with tapestries of events Legolas could remember himself.

Aragorn had retreated to a solar, with his back to them in his new-found finery he could have been an impersonation of Elrond. Except Legolas had never known the Loremaster to jump around with a grin so readily.

"Legolas! Mae govanenn, Mellon nin." They clasped shoulders, Legolas beaming at the pleasantly clean Estel in front of him. It was a distinct improvement on the Ranger from the North. "I am sorry, my friend," Aragorn added after a moment. "Yarna shared the news before she left." Legolas was still swallowing his guilt at his brother's death, and his relief. It sat uneasily on him, never occupying as much of his thoughts as it should, yet never leaving him fully.

"Mandos will judge him," replied Legolas simply. What else could he say? Perhaps his father was in mourning, the court in black and a hidden rage let on his younger siblings. Or, and Legolas hoped this was the case, Matlar and Yarna had quelled the storm, if there had ever been one.

They stood in silence, Aragorn giving him a moment to mourn perhaps before turning to Faramir.

"I have a letter here from Edoras, Éomer requests that we sent someone to help destroy any objects of power left in Isengard." Aragorn handed a paper over along with an unopened envelope. "I thought to send you."

"Of course, your Grace." Legolas could barely hide his smirk as Faramir took his leave, opening the letter from Éowyn on his way out.

"There has never been a man more obviously in love," Aragorn murmured with a chuckle.

"I seem to recall a young Dunedain who met an elleth in Lórien, he was worse." Legolas grinned at the blush that appeared on his friend's neck. At least Aragorn went on believing the lies spun around him.

"It is on that subject that I called you back, among other things. Sit down." Legolas humoured him, perching on the edge of the long seat as Aragorn went back to his chair. "Arwen told me yesterday-" There was a familiar flush in Aragorn's smile, some excitement Legolas had seen on another face years before. His own. "She is with child. By next autumn I shall be a father." For Aragorn's sake he smiled warmly. Inside, Legolas could feel his stomach clench, tightening around the unhealed wound that sat just below his heart. Aragorn never knew, he could never know what his words had done to his friend. The painful twisting knife in his body, ripping the air out of him.

"I am pleased for you, Mellon nin." In his joy Aragorn never noticed the hard line of Legolas' jaw as he set it firmly to stop any emotion leaking out. He had never had his father's cold face, Matlar and Hestlean copied that. Instead he masked himself with smiles and happiness, for that was never questioned in an elf. "I must go and give my congratulations to Arwen."

"She is in the gardens." Legolas beamed again and promised he would come back as soon as he had seen her. Out of necessity he kept his sunny demeanour up as he stalked through the citadel. Yarna had known, Arwen would have told her before she left, and in her innocence she would have wished her false friend well, any sorrow banished as envy. Legolas had given up on innocence, it was a useful mask but nothing more. He knew the truth and he would not let Arwen dwell in happiness when she had stolen it from them.

She was surrounded by her ladies, and a few young lords in the fashion of the courts of Men. Legolas remembered his mother's entourage, made up of as many generals and counsellors as empty heads. Arwen appeared to have surrounded herself with what beauty Gondor could boast and none of the conversation.

"Prince Legolas, your Grace," one of the obligatory guards announced. Arwen stood immediately, her smile pressed into place after a fraction of a second. Legolas' bow was as small as he could manage without appearing to give offence.

"My Lady," he murmured, refusing to call her Queen when Aragorn was not there.

"Leave us," she commanded with the loftiness that had always sat so well with her but had never with the elves of Imladris. The Lords of Gondor bowed and retreated in a way Erestor and Glorfindel never would have. "Yarna left two weeks ago, anyone would believe that-"

"Did she know?" he demanded harshly, his façade slipping as soon as they were alone. Arwen's sickly smile stayed in place as she picked at the flowers around her coyly.

"I may have mentioned my suspicions as she mounted up." Something to think about on the journey, Legolas muse bitterly. "The customary response now is that you are most happy for me, Legolas."

"Do you expect me to say that to you?" he spat, stepping around her. She was taller than Yarna, certainly, but not as strong and she knew it as she backed away from him towards the wall. "You stole my child from me, Arwen, you poisoned them before they saw the light of day." His voice was barely more than a whisper, it did not have to be any louder. "Sindar do not forget. When this gift you have been given lightens your world as you doomed mine to shadow, I will snatch it from you and you shall never know its joy." He said the threat before he even knew what he meant. Never would he stoop so low as to do what Arwen had done, he could not do that to Aragorn. He could hurt her though, he meant neither the child nor the father harm. Just her.

"It is no wonder your brother turned traitor, you are all alike," she hissed at him in return.

"And you are Feanor's kin indeed." That stung, as he knew it would. She shied away from him, as skittish as a doe. Her insults could not hurt him, they hardly even grazed the surface. She had paled a few shades, matching the whitish grey stone of the wall behind her. Legolas turned to face the Pelennor, looking out over the plains as the little garden backed into the citadel and rock face. "Good day, Arwen." He left her there to wipe the shocked look from her face and deal with her courtiers.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I realise that I forgot to put a slash warning at the start of this story. I apologise for that and although it might be a bit late now I will put it here. Glorfindel and Erestor, and Matlar and Orophim are both male couples. There is a female couple as well but without any interaction. There will be nothing explicit and some things could even be over looked. I will put a warning at the top of any chapter that contains a couple actually together. This one does not.__  
_

**Chapter Ten**

Thranduil knew he had left it late in the day to go knocking on the nursery door in the hopes of finding Yarna. Outside the moon had replaced the sun completely; a night breeze brought the first hints of winter with it. Light spilled from under the nursery door and Thranduil paused. The sound of laughter had long been a foreign thing in the royal apartments, he thought, yet there it was bright and full of life. He let them laugh a moment longer before opening the door.

His youngest granddaughter grinned at him, held upside down by her mother, both giggling hysterically. Xanthi, in an attempt to rescue her sister from their enemy was tickling Yarna with a handful of feathers, only just tall enough to reach the pale exposed neck above her. The laughter broke off as he entered, three flushed faces turning towards him. Yarna lowered her daughter to her hip, almost defying him to come closer.

"Grandfather," Xanthi murmured, unsure of what to do until Thranduil graced them with a smile. He needed Yarna in a soft mood and intimidating her girls would not start their conversation off well.

"Do not stop, it would appear you were winning, child," he told her.

"I fear I was outnumbered," said Yarna as she made to put Lilleila down.

"You were a balrog, they only come as one!" Lilleila declared. "And we would have won, but Grandfather saved you."

"He has the most marvellous timing." Thranduil met Yarna's eye and had to remind himself that he came in peace. "Go and gather up the paints before they spill." Xanthi had the sense to lead her sister out into the schoolroom beyond, leaving the two adults alone amid the toys.

"Shall we walk?" Thranduil suggested. Xanthi was too clever by half to be allowed to overhear and Lilleila too young to keep quiet when necessary. With a sharp nod Yarna followed him into the corridor. Barely coming up to his shoulder she padded alongside him, her eyes fixed firmly ahead so that all he could see as he glanced down at her was the luminous outline of her face in the darkness, for they did not waste candles in the lesser used corridors, even in the royal wing.

"Which way did you come?" he asked her, turning to walk past the open colonnade that led to the gardens. A squirrel darted away into his nest, high up in the dark trees.

"I skirted Lothlórien and came along the forest road." She had passed the battlefield where Hestlean had been slain then, and the woods which held those who would have followed him.

"Were our southern subjects welcoming?"

"I did not think it prudent to stop." Legolas and Yarna had been the people's champions, somehow. A Noldo princess, alien, a stranger and yet the elves of Mirkwood had taken a shine to the tiny golden eyed girl. Legolas' easy manner won him their affection in a way none of his brothers had managed. Not even Matlar, although Thranduil expected that between them his fourth son and Orophim could become equally well loved, Orophim having Silvan blood helped. Only they stayed away, in Lórien or firmly hidden within the court. If Yarna had not deemed it wise to make herself known to the southern Silvan elves, then the situation was dire indeed.

"Can you see where we went wrong?" She stopped, her small mouth twisting into a surprised smirk.

"Is the Elvenking asking for my judgement? The third age has ended indeed." He did not care for her humour, neither did his pride.

"I ask because your people-" Her people had knowledge of this, of dissent.

"You are the outsider here, Thranduil. I was born in Lindon, which is closer in some minds than Beleriand." She appeared to regret it as soon as she said it, she lacked Legolas' ability to stay angry for more than a moment. "Forgive me. This... Sentiment, it is directed at you as much as at me. Of those who asked your father to be king, few remain." Yarna was leaning against the low wall between two pillars that looked out in mock windows upon the garden. Thranduil took his place in the next gap, looking around the column past the carved leaves to watch her think. "Your people do not hate you."

"If the same could be said for my court," he mused wistfully.

"That you brought upon yourself. A strong ruler is admired, needed, and in your case loved. A harsh father-" Yarna broke off in a bittersweet smile. "What do I know of fathers now? You should have been softer, to your sons and to your family. Then their friends would love you." Thranduil did pity her now, knowing that she had been betrayed for a second time by the man whose duty it was to protect her.

"That has no relevance," he answered. He would be damned if her let her see any guilt her words dragged up.

"They must have a leader. Someone who can convince them that their woes come from your mistakes." 

"The war is Sauron's doing." Yarna laughed at that.

"No. No, this war was our doing. A long time ago. Elrond blames the strength of Men so that he does not have to face a harsh truth. He would rather say that Isildur was weak and should have cast the Ring into the flames than accept that Gil-Galad should never have let Sauron go. Had the White Council acted sooner we could have stopped this a thousand years ago. Had I-" She sighed. "Had I seen my father for what he was I could have- changed things. This war was of our making, it was born from our failures." Thranduil could have added his own mistakes to her list, but his pride stopped him.

"Then we shall find their leader."

"What would you have done with them? Hand them over to my uncle? Glorfindel will not be so obliging a second time." He refused to look at her, to let her see his dilemma. "Ask for my help and I shall give it," she said quietly. "I will not even resent you."

"As I resented you? I do not need your help, Yarna, any more than I need your forgiveness or your love. It is in your own interests to bring this dissent to an end."

"If Legolas and I still walk these shores when you are done with your crown." Their eyes met and for a long time neither said a word, Thranduil conveying all he needed to in one look. "I see," she murmured.

"Then for his sake, find these leaders and let us be done with this strife." Yarna stood up, pushing herself away from the arch.

"I would help you for your own sake, if you would let me." He turned, his green eyes cold.

"Good night, Princess." She bowed ever so slightly and vanished into the shadows.

Just another note: the prequel to this, Shining Shadows is up and in progress. It focuses on the Third Age.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: some slash in this chapter, nothing explicit but obviously they're in a relationship. It gets heavier as the chapter progresses.**

Chapter Eleven

The road seemed to pass quickly underneath them as they rode through the mountains. Passes that only a year before had required a fully pitched battle to travel through now were open to the small company of elves without a fight. In the shadow of Caradhras they kept had their hands close to their weapons. The Redhorn pass held shadows and they passed through it in silence. Once, Glorfindel would have been grieved again for the passing of Celebrían, but in his mind he could only hold one shadow at a time.

He barely had to guide Asfaloth along, every horse in the party knew the road home and every rider urged them on with a haste that came from a wearisome journey. Still they had left a few in Lórien, some wished to stay and others because guarding so many wounded was impractical. Glorfindel knew he should be paying more attention to his warriors yet Erestor in his efficiency had dealt with everything and left him nothing to occupy his thoughts that could be considered healthy.

The path to Imladris was lightly guarded, one archer stepped forwards out of the trees after they had passed the ford to greet them before they passed on. Glorfindel looked down at the valley, making a note of each change since the first time he had seen it. The house was the same, perhaps an extra wing had been built behind at some point, the gardens were fuller as the trees grew and the rocks of the waterfall had eroded. It was more than that though, the passing of time that even elven realms could not hide. Imladris was no longer as comforting as it had once been, a hearth banked too much so that it no longer kept the whole room warm.

Elrond stood on the steps, the twins behind him, to meet them.

"Fourteen," called Erestor before he had even dismounted. Their Lord's attention went first to those who still had healing wounds and they were bundled off towards the healers' wing, leaving the others to disperse.

"How was the road?" Elladan asked, the five of them falling into step as they walked through the Hall of Fire.

"Long, at least we came before the snow caught us. Is Bilbo still here?" Lindir lightened up, finally being around someone who would speak to him after his father's silence.

"They all are, Mithrandir and the other Hobbits. Come, Bilbo will be pleased to see you." Elladan pulled him away, his twin following to leave Glorfindel and Erestor alone in the corridor.

"Lórien did not make the shadow pass." Erestor's tone held the tiniest note of accusation in it. For a brief time under the golden eaves Glorfindel had made the effort to seem better, to smile and make it look as though his misgivings were gone. More to make Artanis leave him be than anything else, if the truth be told. On the road he had fallen back into his musings and being home did nothing to help.

Glorfindel hesitated, opening their door for him first.

"We are no longer in Lórien," he answered quietly. "The shadows around the hearth always seem longer." He placed his sword and bag gently on the table, leaving them to be put away later. Erestor as always tidied his own things away at once. Although he had cleaned his sword, Glorfindel still felt as if it was smeared with blood.

"Fin, put it down." He realised that he had taken the blade out and was staring at it. Thin hands took it from him, sheathing it and putting it away with his armour. "Come, Elrond and Mithrandir will be expecting us by now."

Erestor had been right, already in the Hall of Fire there sat Elrond and Mithrandir, watching as Lindir and Bilbo started to sing by the fire. The other four hobbits and a few elves were seated around them.

"I would suggest you leave off asking for a narrative until they have both had some sleep," Gandalf said to Elrond as they approached. Glorfindel knew Erestor looked tired, as he often did but the news that he seemed just as bad made him straighten up slightly. By the smirk his friends developed Erestor had done the same. Glorfindel pulled up another chair for him, resting on the back of it as he let his eyes wander of the rest of the hall.

"Is there news from Mirkwood?" asked Erestor.

"Yarna arrived safely, she left the situation rather vague. I doubt that even Thranduil has the full picture. Serwen writes often, she seems to think that there is trouble with the succession."

"There will be, Legolas will never take the crown unless his father rams it on his head," Gandalf muttered. "Now that I have you all here, I would like to thank you for keeping one detail from me. Did you ever intend to inform me that he was in fact my son in law?"

"That was their decision. I do not think it was a matter of hiding it from you," answered Elrond.

"More that you never asked." Glorfindel met Gandalf's eye for a moment before turning back to watch Lindir tune up his harp ready to play again.

"Fin." He wasn't sure if Erestor's chiding was in his head or had actually been said out loud.

"Yarna should do her best to remember that you are her father, not Saruman. She will come under fire enough as it is without having a traitor's name hanging over her," Elrond added.

"She would be wise not to mention either of you," said Erestor, shaking his head. "The Woodland Folk pick up on the slightest change in attitudes. She knows this, between them she and Matlar will keep each other safe."

"I don't see why you three refuse to do anything except send a useless ambassador and then watch whilst two children clean up Thranduil's mess."

"It may have escaped your notice, Mithrandir, but Yarna is not a child anymore," Elrond murmured. "And Serwen is far from useless. Difficult, yes, but she does exactly what we need her to. Yarna understands the situation better than you do. Thranduil will accept her help, eventually, but he will never accept ours." Glorfindel doubted that Erestor had the energy now to try and settle something with the Elvenking. Once they could have matched each other at a negotiating table, they had given each other a good run at war councils but that strength was gone, lost in the darkness of the forest. Elrond too, seemed worn although he had just lost his daughter to Aragorn, both in the usual father of the bride sense and the loss of Arwen to mortality that would one day happen. Again, the Homely House felt old, tired, fading if Glorfindel could dare use that term.

"Are we going to dine, Ada?" Elrohir called across the hall. The doors to the dining hall had been pushed open but had clearly escaped Elrond's notice. The hobbits clamoured excitedly and Elrond led his house into dinner. Glorfindel took his seat at Elrond's right, Erestor next to him. The hall filled with chatter, Lindir and the other elves in their company were the focus of the attention as they were greeted by relieved friends and asked for news on those still in Lórien.

"There was no need to be catty to him," Erestor admonished him quietly. "You do not think he has enough guilt on his shoulders already?"

"I will apologise." It was easier than starting up a half whispered argument about who was to blame for the danger Yarna was currently in. Glorfindel saw Erestor's shoulders sag slightly. Perhaps that was what he had wanted, an angry response, or anything to prove that Glorfindel was still the Seneschal who disagreed with everything out of habit. He wished he could be more than a frightened old fool who listened to his nightmares too much. They barely spoke for the rest of the meal, each picking at their plate with little interest. Elrond asked a few military questions and settled for the full report in the morning.

"Ada?" Lindir called as they drifted back into the Hall of Fire. "Will you not stay?" He had his harp out, already plucking absently at it.

"Dry your weapons before they rust," Erestor murmured and patted his shoulder. "Tonight, not in the morning." He gave his son a rueful smile and left. Glorfindel debated staying, just to give him space. After a moment he knew that it would only get worse if he remained.

"I am sorry," he whispered, leaning against the door. Erestor rearranged the papers on his desk slowly, dragging out the simple task. A silence fell between them, punctured only by the rasping of parchment against parchment as the papers were piled up and shuffled over and over again.

"I know." Erestor turned his back to him, sorting the assorted objects that cluttered their front room. There was no need, they were more or less in perfect order, Glorfindel had not had time to disrupt the neatness of the room yet. He sighed and left Erestor to it, if it settled his mind Glorfindel would let him align books with a straight edge. He ran the bath, watching the water fill the tub with steam.

Erestor had curled up in a chair, reading by the time Glorfindel reappeared. He sighed and did not bother disturbing him. IN a gesture of apology he left the door open to let the light from Erestor's candle spill into their bedroom as Glorfindel pulled the blanket over himself. He did his best not to fall asleep, staring at the wall for hours. Sleep brought back the flames and even when eventually he felt the light presence next to him, turned the other way and silent, he could not let the tension from his shoulders go. Erestor's breathing evened out and Glorfindel let his eyes shut for a moment. Not dreaming, he did not allow himself to dream for fear of a nightmare waking Erestor.

In the small hours, when the House was wrapped in night's cloak and even the minstrels had scurried away to the nooks and crannies where they talked all night, Glorfindel felt the figure next to him move. Shake, rather. He sat up, frowning at the sheen of sweat on Erestor's face. Violent nightmares, thrashing around and even crying out were his domain, when terrors gripped the darker elf he merely woke in silence and all Glorfindel knew of it was when a small head nestled against him. Shaking was a new development.

"Erestor?" Coal eyes flashed open and Glorfindel was confronted with a hunted face he had not seen since Dol Guldur. "Melda, what is it?" It had been his fault, he had reawakened an old wound somehow. Erestor did not answer for a moment, a trembling hand etching the contours of Glorfindel's face.

"It was the day you died," he said at last. "For the first time since you returned I saw you fall again."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

He watched her as she sat by the window, looking out at the rain. She had made some pretence at reading earlier, a book was still open on her lap. It was not the book, however, that had given her such a grave look. Matlar hesitated long before he went over to her, trying to gauge what ill news had her staring at the downpour through one of the few windows that looked out above ground. Leoa had found her first and directed him to the long empty gallery that linked the Queen's wing with the throne room. It was little used since his mother had left, anyone needing to get to the royal apartments went below ground.

"Yarna?" She turned to face him for an instant, letting him see the tears glistening on her cheeks before she turned away again. "Dear sister, what has happened?" Legolas, he thought at once, almost hearing the words of some Ithilien ranger telling them that his brother was gone. After nearly a month there had been no news, the last letter coming with Yarna's arrival.

"I should not weep. No one mourns the wicked, and it would not do to show grief at this." Matlar sat beside her, pulling her closer. "He- Saruman is dead." She buried her face in his shoulder and cried. Saruman, the White Wizard, the traitor of Isengard, was dead. As dead as a Wizard could be, Matlar thought. Which, were the Valar willing, was permanently dead. Before he had been a traitor and destroyed Rohan, breeding foul creatures in the caves of Isengard, he had been Yarna's father, adopted but loved. The one who had taken her when her own father cast her out.

"Mourn for who he was, not who he became." Matlar dared not ask how the Wizard had been slain, nor at what cost. Legolas should have been there instead of hundreds of miles away, somehow he always managed to be absent when she needed him.

"I should have seen it a long time ago, I should have stopped him."

"Hush now. There was nothing you could have done. Have you not heard this before from someone else?" He could not believe that no one had reassured her Saruman's fall was not her doing. She nodded meekly.

"I have no reasoning, Matlar. Nothing to explain why he fell so low. He was good once, I want to know why he turned to darkness. It was not from threat, we were never threatened in Isengard. Nor was it from hatred, at least I do not think so. His will was so strong, I cannot find a reason for him to betray us." He had no answers for her, no one did except Saruman himself and he was beyond explaining himself to her. Yarna tried to sit up and dry her tears, wiping them away as if they were shameful. "I must not mourn, nor seem grieved. Smile we shall and arrange ourselves as painters' models."

"I can give you excuses, time away from court," he offered. Orophim took up most of his hours, either by Matlar sitting with him or thinking of him when he was away from his side.

"No, that will but make it worse. Come, let us speak of other matters so that I may drown it out." She closed the book, setting it on the window sill gently. "They have contacted Laurina."

"The dissidents?" Matlar had no name for them save the one his father gave them. Dissidents, not going so far as to say rebels or traitors.

"I hear of it the same day, anything they tell her comes to me."

"What do they say?" Her voice was still strained and he pretended not to notice how she clenched her fists whenever there was silence between them.

"That the King has no right to rule, there are various theories and proposals. By them, I mean to say that at least four different groups have come forward. The Silvan Captain of the Household Guards is a prize worth fighting for to them," answered Yarna.

"Do any of them have another candidate in mind?" She laughed.

"Treason, brother? A few. Legolas, you, Xanthi and a Silvan lord, or would be lord from the south."

"Me?" Legolas he could understand, as the eldest he could replace their father easily and he had long been a favourite of the people. Xanthi and himself, however were unlikely candidates.

"You married a Silvan, even if he is from Lórien. Xanthi is of Silvan blood, strangely enough people are willing to overlook adopted parentage if it in their interests." Matlar put a firm hand on her shoulder to draw her back from that thought.

"The Silvan lord?"

"Silanden, I shall do my best to find out more. Laurina is looking for anything more than a name."

"The best we can hope for," Matlar said grimly. "Is that we find a connection to Hestlean and Mayra. Then any hopes he has of being credible are gone. The Noldor might follow kin-slayers, the Sindar and Silvan do not."

"Thank you, brother, as if I was not feeling grim enough about my own blood."

"I never mean you. Even father does not count you among them, not in truth. You are as much from Middle Earth as any of us, as he well knows." She gave him an odd smile, rising from her seat.

"I must wash away my tears and leave any grief buried inside. Perhaps he was already lost to me, the bright flame wreathed in shadow long ago, yet it seems as if another light has gone out."

"Send for Legolas. It makes no sense that he should stay away now, the metal has cooled." He took her arm and they walked along the grandly decorated gallery together.

"I shall call, west and south. It is time I gathered my own friends around me." Feuil had done so, or rather he had gathered their brother's friends around him. Matlar worried, for his little brother was far deeper in the game than even he knew.

"If what you say of Xanthi is true, send her and Lilleila away at once. Imladris, even Lórien would be safer than here."

"I will not be parted from them so soon. Laurina and I can keep them safe. Not now, Matlar. I must have my girls with me." She was crying again, a single rogue tear slipping down her face and he did not press the matter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Aragorn kept him in Minas Tirith for a month, keeping his friend by his side to ease the strain of ruling a kingdom that had been at war for generations. Legolas found himself becoming more of an advisor as the days went by although he understood so very little of the economics or politics between the Edain.

Arwen was a thorn in his side, keeping up her smiles and laughter until she glanced his way. He settled his conscience with a picture of Yarna's deathly pale face whenever the look of terror passed over Arwen's. She had done worse than he could ever dream of doing to her. When Yarna returned, which she would be forced to out of the friendship she felt towards the Peredhel, he would hand her his revenge and she would smile, unaware of the carefully constructed pain it caused Arwen. The celebrations following the Queen's announcement left a bitter taste in his mouth, one the wine did not wash away. He laughed and shook Aragorn's shoulder, he even made himself dance with Arwen. When the song ended he knew it was worth it for the flash of fear in her eyes. When he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling before sleep came, he wondered if he was cruel. Yarna, if she knew what he was planning, would plead for him to stop, but she did not know the wrong that had been done to her.

Beyond the horizon his family had been silent for weeks. No news came, not letters of summons from his father or Matlar, not word from his wife. He chaffed at the bit, busying himself in trying to help Aragorn to top himself going mad with frustration. Every morning he pushed his body until it ached, at first against the guard then simply exercising by himself when they realised he did not tire as they did. Erestor would have been proud of how he read, studied, anything to hide the fact that his family were fighting a dangerous game without him.

He was the last elf in Minas Tirith by the time the initial celebrations of Arwen's pregnancy were over. Only Arwen was left and the stares followed them both around, whispers the Men thought they could not hear. Legolas was tired of them, from the Hobbits they had been sweet at first, ones of awe and they soon went when they realised he was simply another member of their company. Boromir's had held more resentment and distrust yet even they had softened over the weeks before his death. Faramir and Aragorn chastised him for not giving them warning when he approached but that was all. The rest of the city, from the courtiers to the sullen faced people in the market place watched him as if he had two heads. He hated having to practice outside with the guard, heads would turn when he hit the targets in ways no one else could and he could hear them saying how unnatural it was to move his body in seemingly three directions at once. So he hid and read and worried, every day the smiles took longer to come.

Until finally he knew something had changed. Aragorn called him to the solar, but he had known before that. Something in the back of his mind, a pressure he had felt before but did not dare allow himself to recognise. Grief, or more specifically, Yarna's grief from far away.

"Legolas." Aragorn was not upset, which relieved him somewhat. His friend would look graver if he had to announce a death that would hurt him. "We were blind to the threat Saruman posed. He has done great evils in the Shire."

"The Shire? Are the Hobbits well?" No, Aragorn would not stand so tall if their friends were dead.

"They are, and brave are all their folk to cast the wizard out. He is dead, stabbed by his creature Gríma." Legolas stopped listening. Saruman was dead. The wizard how had been his father in law, who had raised Yarna, was at last gone. That was the grief he felt, seeping into his mind as she wept, alone in the forest surrounded by those who saw her father as nothing but a traitor. "Mellon nin?"

"I am sorry, Estel. I must leave, I am needed at home now, I have tarried here too long." Yarna needed him and he could not stand to be away from home in the infernal white city for any longer. Aragorn's face fell slightly but he nodded seriously. Legolas almost laughed at his childlike acceptance that the adults had to go and do difficult things.

"Of course. If you can, return in time to greet the child?"

"Naturally." Legolas gave him a broad smile, perhaps as real a one as any he had given in the weeks since Hestlean's death.

Arod made the journey quickly, not as fast as an elven steed but the Rohirim horse was good company. Again he missed Gimli's presence and voice as he cantered over the empty miles. He followed the path Yarna would have taken, avoiding Edoras and Lórien in case he was called upon to stay for any length of time. He hugged the Anduin for most of the way, only leaving it when it passed North Undeep. He did not yet feel ready to see the blackened earth where his brother had fallen. Eventually he saw Mirkwood to the east, having crossed the river. Around him he knew he would find Celeborn's camps, cleansing the forest of evil. He did not dare enter it that far south, it still held shadows he did not want to come across alone.

At the Old Forest Road he came across another traveller, some miles ahead. Legolas could see blond hair spilling from a blue hood and followed the bay horse for hours, never quite managing to catch them. They were an elf, for he saw no saddle and no Man wore their hair that long and free, nor did they allow their womenfolk to traverse the wilds alone. Eventually the rider stopped, having become aware of him and Legolas approached cautiously.

"Legolas? A fine surprise you are." Gandir grinned at him, his sharply carved face twisting so that every part of it joined in. Yarna had the same smile when she tried, her resemblance to her brother would have been remarkable had it not been so ironic.

"As are you. What brings you to Mirkwood? Surely Círdan has you busy." Gandir whistled to his horse and they set off again towards the trees.

"My sister has need of me, or so she said. She calls and I come running, I suppose. Doubtless she would do the same and be of greater use than I." Legolas felt his stomach fall through Arod's back. Yarna had sent for her brother but not for him.

"The use of families. You have heard the news of Saruman?" Gandir nodded.

"The world is glad to be rid of him." Legolas berated himself for forgetting that the wizard had imprisoned Gandir's father, and Gandalf had left Isengard a little worse for wear after refusing to help his fellow Istari betray them to Sauron. It begged the question why Yarna would send for a brother who would not sympathise with her grief.

"Yes," he answered quietly. The world might be glad, but Yarna would not be.

They fell into light conversation for the next three days, passing through the forest without incident. Legolas found himself relieved to be finally going home, the familiar smells of the woods filled his lungs and he allowed himself to smile.

"It is the same with the salt air," Gandir said as they dismounted in the courtyard before the main doors to the halls. "You come down a hill and see the Havens and the smell of the sea fills you up. The gulls too, you only realise they are there when you leave." Legolas suppressed a shudder at the mention of the gulls. He did not want to remember their cries as he walked once more beneath the trees. "I am sorry, my friend." He turned to stare at Gandir who had fixed him with a look of such pity he had to swallow hard. Any elf born in Mithlond would know the signs of sea-longing when the ocean was mentioned.

"Come, let us-" Legolas broke off, turning around. "Yarna." She and Laurina flanked Matlar as they approached. She refused to look at him, giving her brother a faint smile instead.

"You have come straight into a whirlpool, brother," Matlar whispered as they clasped shoulders. "What possessed you to come?" He nodded towards Yarna. "You are a fool, but a lucky one. Father is not here, he has gone to see the border garrisons. You have a day or so. Let us go in, there are too many eyes and ears out here."

Matlar took Gandir to the guest corridor, Laurina slipping away until it was only Legolas and Yarna walking down the hallway. She never spoke until she had closed their apartment door behind them.

"Why call Gandir and not me?" he asked gently. For a moment she stood against the door before her posture crumbled and she wrapped her arms around him.

"And be seen calling for you when a traitor is dead? I knew you would come. You always do, even if you are late." He stroked her hair back as she rested her head against him. "I need Gandir to keep someone occupied and perhaps to remind me that- well, that there is still Mithrandir." Her tone was weary rather than bitter and Legolas could not hold anything against her.

"To keep who occupied?" She smiled thinly. "How far do your plots go, my darling?"

"Hush. Come and see the girls and leave my brother to me." He stopped her, bending down to eye height with her. She kissed him briefly, causing a muffled giggle to escape from the door to the bedroom.

"Ah." Legolas found himself tackled by two small lumps, one red one blonde. "Careful, darling, they will outgrow you." Xanthi was fast matching her mother's height, Lilleila still far behind.

"She has forbidden it," Xanthi answered. "She says it would be inconsiderate of us."

"It never stopped Feuil towering over Matlar." Legolas hoisted Lilleila up in the air. "Or Lindir outgrowing Erestor. It is the way of the world."

"They could at least have the decency to not outgrow my old clothes before they reach the age I was when I wore them." Xanthi sprung away and twirled, the blue dress she had on spinning after her. Legolas could only assume it had once been her mother's.

"Xanthi, cease growing." She crossed her eyes at them both and for one moment Legolas let the outside world slip away. He was home with Yarna and their girls, and he smiled. For a moment at least they were alright.

… …

**A/N: The Noldor (which Yarna is) are always described as tall, incredibly tall. Therefore she is not exceptionally short, or Hobbit sized, merely short for a Noldo.**


	14. Chapter 14

Femslash warning, purely one sided inner monologue. 

**Chapter Fourteen**

They were lying. She wanted to believe the line she told herself at every opportunity. They were lying and what they spoke of was treason. And yet... And yet it was true. Every day it hurt a little more, to watch her love dance and speak to others, her own Sindar officers and yet never speak to her. Laurina knew it was natural, that a Sindar guard had more of a right to speak with a Lady than she did. As Captain, Laurina could meet the King if she needed to, but she could not converse with the courtiers around her. There was no written law, only the overwhelming sense that she was not one of them, she was not equal. It was obvious, as Silanden pointed out when he met her out on the training ground at night. He showed her the differences she had never noticed before, how they held themselves straighter, his their eyes passed over her. She withdrew to the side of the hall.

Silanden's words were treason and she did not agree with them. The King was good to his people, he had never given them cause to complain. She kept that firmly in mind, until the Flower Maidens walked in. When the Queen still dwelt in Mirkwood, they had been her handmaidens. Leoa, the King's niece, Mywen the Queen's cousin, Ninphredil daughter of a lord of Doriath of old and Yarna, daughter of Saruman. Now they stood together as some sort of united front. Perhaps it was the reassurance in their presence that nothing had changed since they were children that changed Laurina's mind. Nothing had changed. She could be Captain of the Guard but she had no right to step forward and offer her hand to the red-haired beauty that occupied her thoughts. Yarna could call her friend and take her into confidence but Laurina could not approach Ninphredil.

Without the King present, Feuil held court. Neither of his elder brothers were present, leaving it to him and Yarna to keep up appearances. Laurina watched the pack of four cross the room, Yarna presenting her brother to them. It seemed as if the two Noldor stood out, even if Gandir was blond like the Sindar.

It was Ninphredil who turned to catch her staring. The tiniest of smiles prompted her to leave her fellows and Laurina realised that even in the shadows of the columns she was not invisible. All in silver Ninphredil looked to her to shine among the court. That in itself was nothing new.

"Why hide away, Captain?" she asked quietly, managing to smile the entire time.

"Merely keeping watch, my Lady." Ninphredil laughed.

"Then you are wise enough to see the enemies within." Laurina could not tell if that was a compliment or not. "I can assure you, there is nothing here to harm but barbed words and sly looks. Do you keep a watch for those?"

"No, my Lady," was all Laurina could think of as a reply, her tongue tied itself in knots whenever she tried to move it.

"Then you should occupy yourself with something more useful than keeping watch." Ninphredil turned suddenly and laughed. "Ah, so that was what she meant."

"My Lady?" 

"Mywen, Laurina. Whether by chance, more likely his sister's design, our very own Lady Mywen has found herself an admirer in Lord Gandir. For her sake I hope she returns it." Laurina looked out at the group, Leoa and Yarna had drifted away ever so slightly, not quite leaving the other two but almost. "It is painful when it is not returned. Come and dance with me, Captain."

"My Lady?" Ninphredil gave her tinkling laugh again. It had attracted a Sindar lord, Laurina searched for his name as she inclined her head to him.

"Lord Cedwar." Laurina found herself facing the backs of their heads, relegated to the shadows again.

"Would you care to dance, Ninphredil?" Laurina stared at the floor as Ninphredil laughed and let herself be led away by Cedwar.

Laurina stalked through the palace, coming at last to the door that opened out to the training field. In the pitched black of night she could see as well as at dusk, the moon acting as the sun. There, far from the prying eyes of windows or guards, she found him. Standing short, with hair as vivid red as dried blood and a brazen smile, Silanden waited for her. She at once despised and admire him, looking both down and up to him. A traitor, but one who was asking for something she dearly wanted. To not be passed over, to have a chance at earning the honour of loving someone such as Ninphredil. His smile was fire, not the burning radiance of the children of Mithrandir who she had left in the hall, nor the faint starlight of the Princes, but plain fire such as the first people's discovered long before they could speak.

"Tonight you rush to me, when before you dragged your feet as if on an errand." Yarna had sent her at first, telling her to listen only. Laurina shook her head. It mattered not now, she could listen but now she wanted it.

"I want the right to stand by their sides," she told Silanden.

"And for it you will be prepared to fight?" She hesitated but nodded. Silanden was not mad, he did not mean the war Hestlean and Mayra had wanted. The trouble that haunted Yarna's mind. "Why?"

"I wish to be equal, to be worthy of her- of their halls." His smile was broader and he nodded.

"Then do not answer to your mistress again." Yarna, he had known somehow that she was reporting back.

"I will not put this realm in danger, Silanden."

"I would not ask you to betray your friends." He turned quickly, slipping towards the obscure shadows. "Watch and know that you will be worthy of her, when we are done."


End file.
